


The Stratigraphic Column

by Pangea



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Erik is Crushing Harder than a 12-year Old Girl, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, Tumblr Memes, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-09 21:24:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 45
Words: 61,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7817830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An odd and insubstantial collection of tumblr ficlets!</p>
<p>36. Harry Potter AU 1: Erik's wand misfires just as he's finally gotten to kiss Charles<br/>37. Law Enforcement AU: Detective!Erik isn't happy when FBI!Charles shows up at his crime scene<br/>38. Three Sentence Prompt Meme<br/>39. The Donut AU: Jam!Erik fills up Donut!Charles<br/>40. Window washer!Erik's favorite client is Charles<br/>41. Western AU 2: Ranch owner!Charles convinces ranch hand!Erik to stay for another season<br/>42. 007 AU: Casino Royale - Bond!Charles and Vesper!Erik make a gamble<br/>43. Harry Potter AU 2: Charles and Erik discover they can both see the thestrals<br/>44. <strong>*NEW*</strong> Harry Potter AU 3: Charles and Erik convince the Sorting Hat to play a prank<br/>45. <strong>*NEW*</strong> Harry Potter AU 4: Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Post-XMA: Erik stays, and decides to build a dream home for himself and Charles

**Author's Note:**

> I'm finally starting to gather up all the tumblr ficlets I've written over the years, so I'll be updating this slowly but surely! You can come check me out at [pangeasplits](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Two small caveats:
> 
> 1\. I don't always stick _exactly_ to the given prompt  
>  2\. Please don't ask me for "more of this!" for any given ficlet. :')
> 
> With thanks to everyone who's ever sent in a prompt (!), and to **ikeracity** for the "odd and insubstantial" descriptor.
> 
>  
> 
> ——————————
> 
>  
> 
> **Prompt: Cherik prompt because the end of XMA calls for it : AU/canon/whatever Erik insisting to build their dream house all by himself, Charles is skeptical (rightly so) but sexy sweaty Erik is A+. Erik is bad at construction work, of course. (I dunno, he probably built six basements, a drawbridge and forgot the bathroom.)**

 

“Of course you can,” Charles had said when Erik had asked to stay, voice thick with emotion and barely restraining himself from adding, _It’s all I’ve ever wanted._

“Of course you can,” Charles had said when Erik had offered to take over the upkeep of the school’s grounds. It was clear to everyone Erik liked being outside, close to the nature that reminded him of his little girl, and Charles had figured it would be good for Erik to have something to keep himself busy.

“Of course you can,” Charles had said, albeit slightly hesitantly, when Erik asked about building a small house far off on the edge of the property. At night they share a bed, but perhaps it would be good for Erik to have a place to retreat to for some space when they inevitably get into an argument about the direction of the X-Men’s training down in the Danger Room, or anything to do with mutant politics on the news—anything’s better than Erik storming off and leaving again.

“Of course you can,” Charles had said, fully wary when Erik had come to him with plans to literally build the house himself, and not hiring a team of contractors like Charles had originally (foolishly, it seems) envisioned. Well, Erik _had_ helped Jean rebuild the school, Charles had reasoned, so Erik can probably manage a smaller house by himself no problem if he really wanted to.

“What,” Charles says, when he goes out to the garage to check on Erik and comes across him in the middle of painting a large sign that says **LOVE SHACK**.

 

*

 

“Charles, I’m going to need these forms signed by the end of the day,” Hank says for the third time in a row. “Or otherwise we won’t be getting any new funding in till next semester.”

“Right,” Charles agrees absently for the third time in a row. Down on the lawn below, clearly visible from Charles’ office window, Erik has been making trips back and forth all morning, hauling long pieces of lumber out to his planned construction site.

“Really, it has to be today,” Hank tries again. “We really need more desks.”

“It’ll get done, Hank,” Charles says, almost holding his breath as Erik stops for a moment, pausing to wipe the sweat off his brow. He’s wearing an old, soft-looking flannel shirt and Charles has been waiting all morning for him to take it off, and this might finally be it.

“Chalk,” Hank says futilely, “paper, textbooks—”

Charles sighs in disappointment as Erik starts walking again, flannel shirt still buttoned up. Maybe it’ll be off by noon, once it’s really starting to heat up. He swivels his chair back around, pulling up snugly to his desk. “What was it again that you needed, Hank?”

With a flat look, Hank tosses a stack of papers down in front of him. “A drink.”

 

*

 

“Why is Erik digging a trench in the yard,” Raven says without preamble when she sticks her head in Charles’ office three days later.

“What?” Charles asks, startled enough to look up from the stack of essays he’s in the middle of grading.

“Why. Is. Erik,” Raven enunciates slowly, because she knows Charles hates it, “Digging. A. Trench.”

“He is not digging a trench, he’s building a house,” Charles says, wheeling around to look out the window only to be faced with unmistakable evidence that Erik is, in fact, in the midst of digging a trench.

“Professor, what’s the LOVE SHACK sign for down in the garage?” Jubilee asks, popping up behind Raven. “Are we going to have a B-52’s-themed school dance? Can I do the decorations?”

“I have to go talk to Mr. Lehnsherr,” Charles mutters, edging past them, and refusing to acknowledge Raven’s smirk.

 

*

 

“It’s a moat,” Erik says, like it’s obvious.

“Why does the house need a moat,” Charles says, far more patiently than he thinks the situation deserves.

Erik gives him a dubious look, and Charles can nearly read the _what house_ **_doesn’t_ ** _need a moat, Charles_ right off the forefront of his brain. “Anyway, I researched it. It’s too cold for alligators this far north but we might be able to keep piranhas happy.”

“Piran—no, _no_ , we are not keeping a _moat_ full of _piranhas_ on school property,” Charles says exasperatedly. “We’re not having a moat period. Put the dirt back.”

Erik folds his arms. He’s all sweaty and deliciously disheveled, and the hard hat he’s been wearing for the entirety of this little project has been a real personal eye-opener for Charles and the amount of construction worker fantasies he’s been able to have, and it’s unfair, really, how attractive all this makes Erik look but that by _no means_ indicates Charles is just going to give in to his absurdities.

“A moat will keep us from being disturbed, which is what I thought you would want,” Erik says, sounding far too reasonable for someone who has plans for a drawbridge spread out across one of his makeshift plywood work tables.

“Speaking of that, I told you to get rid of the LOVE SHACK sign,” Charles hisses.

“No,” Erik says calmly. “If you don’t want me to hang it up over the front door, then I can at least keep it for one of the basements.”

“One of the—?” Charles repeats incredulously. “How deep did you dig for the infrastructure?”

“There are six basements,” Erik says stubbornly, “each one will have a different theme.”

“Does this house even have a bathroom, or did all your planning go into _love dungeons?_ ” Charles demands.

“Um,” Erik says. “The moat will be useful for...many things.”

“Erik, we cannot have a kinky lovenest on the school grounds,” Charles says, rubbing the bridge of his nose wearily. “That will get _me_ arrested, and the school investigated. Possibly even shut down.”

“Fine,” Erik says, taking his hard hat off and tossing it aside. “But if I find property elsewhere, then I can build whatever I want.”

Charles opens his mouth, but then he pauses, considering for a few long moments. “That would be fine. Yes.”

“Good,” Erik says, pleased.

“Now please come here and make out with me,” Charles says, locking the brakes on his chair, “because I’ve been dying all week watching you from my office. Seriously.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Erik says triumphantly, and stalks forward to do just that.

 


	2. Charles gets a dildo stuck up his ass, and Dr. Lehnsherr has to investigate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Ok but that story about that guy who got a dildo stuck in his ass...cherik it. Charles is the one who gets it stuck up his ass and Erik is the doctor who is Extremely Amused. Charles asks him out because hey hes seen p much all of it already.**

 

“There’s a perfectly good explanation for this,” says patient Nice Eyes But Obviously A Disaster from his position over on the examination table as Erik slaps his X-rays up on the display for easy viewing. “Really. There is.”

“I’m sure,” Erik says dryly, folding his arms and studying the picture. He’s not one to be easily impressed—he _isn’t_ —but this time he just might be. Clearly visible thanks to the x-ray is a ten-inch-long dildo shoved up Nice Eyes But Obviously A Disaster’s ass, lodged in tightly and most likely there to stay for at least another hour, or at least until the battery power runs out and the thing stops vibrating. When Erik signed up to take the overnight shift at the 24-hour clinic on the west side of town, he hadn’t been expecting—well. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been this.

“You _can_ get it out, right?” Nice Eyes But Obviously A Disaster says, a small note of concern entering his voice for the first time since he set foot out in the waiting room, like it’s only just occurring to him now that maybe he should be worried.

“I’m afraid you may have to live with this condition with the rest of your life,” Erik informs him gravely, because it’s been a long week and fuck it, it’s two in the morning and this guy is just begging to be fucked with. Who the hell loses an entire 10-inch-long dildo in their own ass? Is there a Darwin Awards type of thing for this? He’ll have to google it later.

Nice Eyes But Obviously A Disaster’s expression flickers in dismay for a split second, but then his eyes narrow. “Wait a moment. You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“At this stage, it’s too early to tell,” Erik says, turning around and pretending to busy himself with flipping through Nice Eyes But Obviously A Disaster’s chart in order to hide the way his lips twitch.

“I could sue you for that,” Nice Eyes But Obviously A Disaster Who According To His Chart Is Actually Named Charles Xavier pouts, shifting restlessly on the table and making the paper laid out across the worn vinyl crinkle softly.

“You could,” Erik agrees, turning back around once he’s certain his expression is schooled back into the appropriate level of gravitas, “but it would be a dark day indeed if you don’t find any little bit of this even remotely funny.”

Xavier manages to hold his disapproving stare for all of three seconds before he barks out a laugh, curling onto his side only to gasp in pain. “Oh—ow, that hurts,” he wheezes even as he laughs again, and Erik moves to deftly settle him. “Fine—I’ll give you that much. This _is_ pretty funny, isn’t it?”

“Stop laughing, you’ll make it worse,” Erik says, but somehow he’s grinning and petting Xavier’s shoulder gently. “I’d like to hear the explanation for this, actually. We might as well kill time while we wait for the batteries to die, because there’s no way to safely extract that thing while it’s still vibrating.”

Xavier groans a little at the implications. “Fine. I was bored because my husband has _abandoned_ me for the evening, and I was feeling horny and one thing led to another and now here I am.”

“Abandoned?” Erik asks wryly. “Poor thing. Your husband must be a fool.”

“He is,” Xavier says savagely, but his mouth is starting to twist again in an attempt to hold in more laughter. “He’s a bloody arsehole.”

“It seems like you and he will shortly have a lot in common, then,” Erik answers, and then that’s it, that’s the last straw.

Both of them burst out laughing, Charles shaking to pieces where he lies while Erik has to stagger backwards and sink down onto the wheeled stool next to the counter in order to keep himself from collapsing in hysterics. It takes them a solid five minutes to calm down again, because every time Erik thinks he’s caught his breath and is cool again, all he has to do is look over and meet Charles’ gaze and that’s all it takes to send them both off into another round of uncontrollable laughter.

“I cannot _believe you_ ,” Erik says at last, when his stomach muscles are actually starting to protest. “I’m embarrassed to know you. I’m embarrassed _for you_.”

“No, no, you’re totally ruining it,” Charles gasps, his face streaked with tears from laughter, “I had this whole plan of also abruptly asking you out while you had your fingers up my ass trying to get the damn thing out.”

“Unbelievable,” Erik says weakly. “But give me some credit. I kept the act up through your entire x-ray process.”

“True.”

“Please don’t tell me you shoved that vibrator all the way up your ass on purpose just to come here.”

“No, that actually was a mistake,” Charles admits, chagrinned, “but then I figured I’d get to see how long Dr. Lehnsherr can keep a straight face.”

“I’d be _fine_ if it were anyone else,” Erik says, “but you, on the other hand…”

“I’ve always been to crack that steely facade,” Charles says loftily, sounding a little too smug for a man with a 10-inch vibrator lost up his ass.

“Shut up,” Erik advises him, to bring him a little bit down back towards Earth again, “I can’t believe right now, at this moment in time, that I’m married to you.”

“Till death do us part,” Charles says sweetly.

“Good thing, too,” Erik says, pushing his stool across the linoleum floor until he’s sitting next to the table and close enough to take one of Charles’ hands, “because I’m not letting you live this down until we’re actually _on_ our deathbeds. Probably not even then.”

 


	3. U.S. President Erik Lehnsherr has a crush on his favorite author

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: US President Erik crushing on favorite book author Charles.**

 

The First Car barrels down Georgia Avenue surrounded by the rest of the motorcade, the street clear on both sides as they pull away from Howard University. Erik’s speech to the African Mutant Society was only the first order on today’s packed agenda, but judging by the rest of the meetings and phone calls lined up on the itinerary he’s currently slowly scrolling through on his tablet, by the time the day is finally over it will have been the most enjoyable.

Setting the tablet aside on the seat, Erik leans back and lets out a long, slow breath. It’s going to take every ounce of his patience today to deal with the GOP today. He lifts his gaze to look out the window, just in time to catch the Barnes & Noble sign out on the corner, with a large poster stand next to it: GUEST AUTHOR CHARLES XAVIER BOOK SIGNING, 10 AM - NOON.

“Stop the car,” Erik says after a quick glance down at his watch. It’s almost noon, so he still has a little bit of time.

“Sir?” Emma asks, going from semi-relaxed to alert in the span of a half second where she sits on the opposite end of the limo.

“I want to go into that Barnes and Noble,” Erik says. “Alert the motorcade.”

“Is now really the time—”

“Just do it, Emma.”

Emma gives him a look that clearly says she thinks he’s crazy, but gets on the radio. Erik wouldn’t have picked her as the head of his personal secret service detail if she didn’t occasionally question him—it keeps him sharp—but is efficient at following through. One well-executed U-turn later, the First Car is sliding smoothly up to the curb outside the bookstore.

“Sir, you should really let my team do a security sweep first,” Emma says disapprovingly as Erik moves to climb out.

“If terrorists were planning on taking me out today, they wouldn’t be hiding in a random Barnes and Noble,” Erik says dismissively, “and anyway, I’d like to see them try.”

“Famous last words,” Emma says dryly, but dutifully follows him out, signalling her team climbing out of the SUVs to follow as Erik leads the way into the store.

Inside the Barnes and Noble is unremarkable compared to any of the other Barnes and Noble chains Erik has ever set foot in before, with a few extra displays devoted to the Howard University Bisons mixed in with the regular recently released titles and Nooks. It’s sparsely populated, which isn’t unusual for a bookstore right before noon in the middle of the week, but the few customers who are browsing the shelves stop in their tracks and either gawk or whip out their phones to take pictures as Erik and his security detail make their way towards the back of the store.

Charles Xavier is best known for his extensive crime drama series so meticulously researched that Erik is at the point where he’s unable to read anything in the genre by anyone else because none of it is as _quality_ . Every one of his books features a wide variety of mutant characters, and while they occasionally have baseline-sympathetic undertones, it’s never at the cost of the mutants. He is Erik’s favorite author ever, and if Charles Xavier is in town today Erik definitely wants to meet him and ask him what the hell Mystique was thinking in chapter thirteen of _Days of Future Past_.

Sitting at a small foldout table with a few copies of his latest release, _Apocalypse_ , is Charles Xavier himself. Since it’s close to noon, most of the people Erik assumes came out to meet him have already cleared out, and Xavier is chatting with one of the Starbucks Cafe employees who must have just brought him the latte at his elbow. The pair of them look up as Erik approaches, the barista’s eyes going wide with recognition while Xavier smiles in polite bemusement.

“Mr. President,” he says, and Erik isn’t surprised to hear the British accent. He’s browsed through several different fan websites over the years to know Xavier has a dual citizenship to the US and to Britain. “I didn’t know we’d have the honor of you stopping by today. I’d get up to shake your hand, but I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive me on that.” He gestures down at his wheelchair with a grin that seems to make his blue eyes all but sparkle.

“No, no,” Erik says quickly, walking forward and extending his hand for a shake. Xavier’s grip is warm and firm. “We were passing by and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet you.”

“Really,” Xavier says, his grin widening a little. The barista chooses this moment to make herself scarce, scurrying off through the aisles where Emma and her team prowl. “Are you a fan, Mr. President?”

“Call me Erik,” Erik says, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down so Xavier doesn’t have to crane his neck back. “And yes, I am.”

“I’m a fan of yours as well, you know,” Xavier says as he grabs one of the _Apocalypse_ copies and opens it to the inside title page. “I followed your campaign with great interest, and while I don’t agree with you on all your policies, you still definitely received my vote in the election.”

“Really,” Erik echoes him, feeling inordinately pleased. He finds himself grinning back at Xavier, watching him scrawl out a short inscription without reading what it is yet. “You should probably know I don’t agree with all of your plotlines, either, then. _Days of Future Past_ is probably the largest offender.”

“Ooh,” Xavier says, wickedly amused, as he slides the book towards Erik, “please, do tell.”

“Well,” Erik begins, but he’s interrupted by Emma clearing her throat.

“Sir, we really are running late.”

Erik has to physically bite back his protest—as much as he’d like to sit here all day and discuss the plots of his favorite books with his favorite author, he _is_ the President of the United States. He gives Xavier a rueful smile. “Duty calls.”

“Of course, of course,” Xavier says, and reaches out to snag the book he signed and flipping it open again to add something onto the end of his note before he snaps it shut with a flourish and hands it back to Erik with a smile. “Wonderful to meet you, Erik. I hope we have the chance again soon.”

“So do I,” Erik says honestly, and he has time for one last look at Xavier before Emma hustles him out of the store and back into the car.

It’s only once they’re almost back to the White House does Erik flip his new book open to read what Xavier—what Charles—has written:

 _To Erik,_   
_I think yours is a very groovy mutation indeed._   
_Best,_ _  
_ Charles

“Did he write down his _number_ for you?” Emma asks, because of course she isn’t minding her own business, but Erik hardly cares.

“Yes,” Erik answers, grinning one of his trademark grins his enemies in the GOP always compare to that of a bloodthirsty shark, “he did.”

 


	4. Best Man Charles gets drunk at Erik's wedding and confesses his love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: There was a tweet that went: "My aunt's wedding got awkward when the best man got drunk & announced during the toast that he was in love with the groom" where Erik is the groom, Charles is the best man?**

 

“Excuse me, everyone!” Charles lurches to his feet, tapping his fork against his water glass loudly to attract everyone’s attention. He imagines the room is a little blurry but that’s probably because of all the wine glasses he’s polished off over the course of the dinner, and that’s not even counting the trips he’d made to open bar over in one corner of the hotel ballroom before dinner was served. “I’d like to make a toast!”

It takes a few seconds, but gradually the happy hubbub of conversation dies off, everyone in the room focusing on Charles where he stands at the table at the front of the room where the rest of the wedding party sits. Erik puts his arm around Magda where they sit together at the head of the table and grins at him, because likely he can tell exactly how drunk Charles is—just like Charles can tell Erik is still half-freaked out that he’s married.

“First of all, to the happy couple,” Charles says, lifting his glass of champagne and prompting the rest of the room to follow suit. “You two are perfect for each other. No, you really are,” he insists, making a few people laugh, “you’re like two halves of a very...a very,” Charles casts around for something to say but comes up blank, “...perfect whole.”

Erik raises an amused eyebrow, still grinning, and someone on the other end of the room calls out, “Here, here!”

“Anyway, um, when you asked me to be your best man, of course I had to accept,” Charles continues, and in a distant corner of his mind he hopes his words are slurring too badly. “You are my oldest and best friend, and I couldn’t have been happier to…”

He trails off, and the silence is deafening. Everyone is watching him, still holding up their champagne glasses and waiting for him to finish. But the longer Charles hesitates the harder and harder it gets to keep going, all the melancholy of the past nine months welling up inside him until he can barely breathe and down the table Erik’s grin is starting to fade and be replaced by a worried, concerned look as Charles feels his own expression start to mirror his emotions.

“I’m sorry, I—I can’t do this,” Charles says, his voice loud enough to carry through the whole room but his eyes locked on Erik’s. “I’m in love with you.”

Someone gasps and a startled wave of murmurs breaks out throughout the room, but Charles ignores the buzzing of the crowd and merely keeps his gaze on Erik—Erik, who seems to be rooted to the spot where he sits, his expression wide-eyed and frozen.

“I’ve been in love with you ever since we first met,” Charles continues, the words pouring out of his mouth now and he should probably stop, he should probably leave before he ruins his chances of even remaining friends with Erik, but he’s too drunk to do anything except finally tell the naked, honest truth. “I’ve been in love with you since our freshmen year of university. I never told you because I didn’t want to—to ruin our friendship. I was too scared.”

Erik stares at him helplessly. Erik, who said his vows not even an hour ago, who sits next to his new wife at the dinner reception for their wedding, with a ring on his finger that Charles will never own a matching one to. It’s definitely the alcohol but also the deep, aching heartbreak that’s been weighing on Charles for years now that causes the tears, gathering hot and heavy in the corners of his eyes before slowly starting to fall, trailing down his cheeks as the hand still clenched knuckle-white around his champagne glass trembles.

“I should’ve said something sooner,” Charles says tremulously, everything a blur except for Erik, “I’m sorry. I’m probably ruining your wedding and that was never my intention. But I can’t keep this a secret anymore because it’s killing me.” Shakily, he sets his glass down with a sharp clink that just about echoes through the dead-silent room. “It’s killing me.”

There’s a long, terrible pause where no one speaks. Then Erik opens his mouth. “I—”

A loud crash makes everyone jump, and Charles whips around just in time to watch a second heavy spotlight stand topple over, joining the first one that had fallen with a loud crunch.

“Cut!” the director calls irritably from behind the camera. “Is someone going to do something about that, or?”

Immediately the set is flooded with lighting specialists and other techs, and Charles takes a moment to wipe his eyes while everyone relaxes from their tense poses.

“Hey, don’t wipe your face too much,” Jubilee says as she flounces over, makeup brush already poised. “You’ll undo all my hard work.”

“Sorry,” Charles apologizes, “the tears get sticky sometimes.”

“I don’t see why he didn’t get to keep his freckles,” Erik says as he drifts over to join them. He’s fiddling with his bowtie absently. “He looks a lot better with them than without.”

“Not my decision,” Jubilee singsongs, before she catches sight of one of the extras doing worse crimes to her makeup and hustles over to fix them.

“So.” Erik says, standing just close enough so their shoulders are pressed together. “That was passionate.”

“You don’t think it was too overdone?” Charles asks skeptically, mentally reviewing his performance. “It’s hard to find a balance between tear-jerkingly emotional but also shitfaced.”

Erik snorts. “Having seen you in real life as both extremely sappy—”

“ _Hey_ —”

“—and also extremely shitfaced, I think you’re doing fine.”

“I’d step on your foot if wardrobe wouldn’t murder me for leaving a scuff mark on your shoe,” Charles mutters, and Erik laughs.

They watch the set crew struggle with the lights for a few minutes in companionable silence, though it doesn’t look like they’re having any luck: both the bulbs are smashed, and broken glass litters the floor, crunching loudly underfoot as three of the crew struggles to right the poles again.

“Hey,” Erik says quietly after the director finally gives up and tells everyone to take 30, “after this, let’s stop doing movies together where one of us is in a heterosexual relationship.”

“Aw,” Charles says, grinning, “is my acting a little _too_ convincing, then?”

“Shut up,” Erik says gruffly, averting his eyes. “Just—no more.”

“Agreed,” Charles answers, offering Erik a softer smile and taking his hand. Production reserved rooms for everyone in the hotel they’re currently shooting in, so a private area is only a short elevator ride away. “Come on, let’s go back up to our room and make out for 30 minutes.”

“Just make out?” Erik asks slyly as he allows Charles to tug him along. “Have a little faith. We can get up to a _lot_ more than just _making out_ with 30 whole minutes.”

Charles laughs, picking up his pace when Erik does, all the torrid emotions of his character long forgotten. None of that is real. _This_ is, bright and perfect. “I was hoping you would say that.”

 


	5. College Roommate AU: Erik's clothes keep mysteriously disappearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: charles stealing erik's clothes ******

 

He forgets to set his alarm the night before and since the entire universe appears to be conspiring against him, Erik wakes up with only five minutes till his first morning class starts. He rolls straight out of bed, forgetting for the fourth time this semester that he’d opted to take the top bunk, so when he crashes to the ground five feet later he wastes another minute just lying there, partially stunned.

Then he rallies, scrambling up to his feet and dragging himself over to his desk to shove all his notes and books back into his backpack, hoping that he’s grabbing the right stuff. At least he doesn’t have to worry about how much noise he’s making—Charles, because he’s a maniac, has his first class at 7am so he’s already gone from their dorm room.

It’s cold as balls outside even though it’s only October, so Erik makes a zombie-like dive towards his closet to dig out something warm to wear. The first thing that comes to mind is the overlarge sweater his mother knitted him, but after he digs through several piles of clothes he still can’t find it. Odd. He swore he only wore it once last week, which shouldn’t warrant being tossed into his dirty clothes hamper that currently smells like it would probably endanger the public health if released on the breeze, but maybe he’d thrown it in there thinking he’d get around to doing his laundry sooner rather than later. Oh well.

Erik pulls out a turtleneck instead, shrugs into his jacket, and snags a strawberry poptart from the box on Charles’ desk that Charles bought claiming they could share even though Erik knows for a fact Charles only eats oreo poptarts, and then heads out at a dead run to class.

 

*

 

On Wednesday, he can’t seem to find a pair of his socks even though he swears he hasn’t worn them yet. They’re his special socks, with the Real Madrid logo on the sides that he likes to wear on every other Wednesday for good luck, since they always have a quiz in his discussion group class for chem 2 then. They’re also thick and warm, which would be great today since the cold snap has yet to fade away, if only Erik could find them.

“I can’t find my socks,” he says aloud, after he’s dug through the top drawer of his dresser twice. Weirdly enough, his knit sweater had turned up again yesterday, hanging up on a hanger. Erik normally doesn’t use hangers, so perhaps Charles somehow found it and hung it up, which would explain why Erik hadn’t noticed it.

“Really?” Charles asks absently from across the room where he’s hunched over his desk with the calc 2 textbook they’d split the cost of to share.

“Yeah, my RMA ones,” Erik says, a little frustrated. He’s got ten minutes till it’s time to leave for his class which he’d intended to use for some last-minute cramming, not searching for socks.

“That’s weird,” Charles says serenely. “Are they in your dirty laundry?”

“No, I haven’t worn them since the last quiz, the week before last.”

“I’m sure they’ll turn up eventually.”

“You don’t understand,” Erik complains with a theatrical sigh, but he chalks it up for a loss and pulls on a different pair of socks instead, ones with tiny little magnets all over them. At least the quiz is just on equilibrium today. “See you later.”

“Bye!” Charles chirps without looking up, and Erik shoulders his backpack while jamming his feet into his shoes, and spends the entire walk across campus wondering if they have some kind of laundry gremlin in their room or something.

 

*

 

“The weirdest thing is happening,” Erik starts off with as he slings himself down into the empty chair across from Charles in the dining hall on Thursday. “I can’t find my Metallica t-shirt.”

“Isn’t it a little too cold to be wearing a t-shirt anyway?” Charles asks, because he always acts like he’s a fountain of wisdom even though he thinks mutants and humans should get along. Please.

“It’s called _layering_ , Charles,” Erik says dryly, “which you should know anyway, since that’s the only way you know how to dress.”

“Yes, well,” Charles sniffs, “it’s called dressing for success.”

Erik rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I think someone is stealing my clothes. First it was my sweater, which you found, but then it was my socks, and now my t-shirt. You’ve been locking up every time you leave the room, right? Even when you just go to the bathroom?”

“Maybe if you did your laundry on a more regular basis, you wouldn’t have this problem,” Charles says, amused. “They’re probably all in your dirty hamper.”

“I know I haven’t worn any of them yet since the last time I did laundry,” Erik insists. “I would remember.”

Charles sighs. “I’m starving. Can we discuss this further after we have food in front of us? It’s mystery meat today, so I’ll go sit in the pizza line if you want to grab drinks.”

“Fine,” Erik says, standing up and shedding his scarf and coat. “Man, it’s hot in here, aren’t you going to take that off?”

“No, I feel fine,” Charles says cheerfully, still all bundled up in his peacoat. “Meet you back at the table!” he calls over his shoulder as he wheels off towards the pizza line, where it seems everyone else has gathered to avoid the mystery meat, leaving Erik to merely shrug and head for the soda machine.

 

*

 

Friday morning it all comes to a head when Erik bumps into Charles outside their dorm building while he’s on his way to physics and Charles is on his way back from bio lab. It’s finally started to warm up at last, so Erik’s opted for only a turtleneck, no jacket—and it seems Charles has too.

“Hey,” Erik says, squinting at him for a full ten seconds while Charles looks back guiltily, “is that—is that _my_ turtleneck?”

“Y-es,” Charles hedges.

“You,” Erik says, suddenly realizing, “it’s been _you_ all week! You’ve been wearing my clothes!”

“Well,” Charles begins, but Erik’s on a roll.

“You wore my sweater on Monday,” he continues, “and on Wednesday, you had my socks on the whole time! And yesterday you had my t-shirt on and that’s why you wouldn’t take your coat off inside!”

“Yes,” Charles says, slowly turning pink.

“And now,” Erik says, sweeping his gaze across Charles again, but then he forgets what he was going to say. His turtleneck is stretched taut across Charles’ chest, and outlines his arm muscles in a way Erik hadn’t previously known was possible. Charles looks _good_.

 _Especially_ good, in Erik’s clothes.

“I’m really sorry, my friend,” Charles says quickly into the silence, “I was only borrowing because I didn’t have time to do my laundry last weekend, and so…”

“You were the one telling me I should do _my_ laundry on a more regular basis,” Erik breaks out of his momentary stupor to say indignantly, and Charles ducks his head with a weak laugh.

“Yes, um.”

“Well,” Erik says, feeling emboldened by the circumstances, “keep it on. It suits you.” He steps forward and leans down to kiss Charles on the cheek, just like he’s wanted to since the beginning of last semester. “We’ll discuss this further when I get back from class,” he says while Charles sputters, and then marches off to the physics building with a grin large enough to rival the school mascot’s.

 


	6. Superhero AU: Charles is late to another date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Charles or Erik waiting for the other at a date location and the other is late for the 3rd (or more) date in a row and they're getting anxious.**

 

Checking his watch for the 5th time in less than 5 minutes, Erik discovers he’s also tapping his foot in agitated impatience, which he previously didn’t realize people actually did in real life. It’s definitely warranted, though, he thinks in annoyance as he looks up and down the street one more time in hopes of catching sight of Charles, but no dice.

Pulling out his phone, Erik shoots off another terse text, his second in the last fifteen minutes. [Where are you?]

He and Charles were actually supposed to have met up a half hour ago. That was supposed to have been enough time to say hello, buy the movie tickets, stand in line for the concession stand and get a couple of sodas and maybe a popcorn to share, and then find good seats. But Erik has the tickets, two sodas tucked awkwardly under one arm while he balances the small bucket of popcorn in his hand, and the movie started ten minutes ago. Erik knows that the previews are probably still playing, and that they have at least ten more minutes’ worth of trailers before the actual film starts, but this is the 3rd date Charles has failed to arrive on their agreed time for, and Erik’s starting to wonder if this just isn’t going to work.

It’s kind of disappointing. Charles, when he does finally show up, is otherwise...perfect. He’s good looking, intelligent, and has a wicked sense of humor. Erik had enjoyed their first two dates a lot, despite hardly believing it himself, and he’d thought he’d gotten the general impression that Charles had too.

But maybe not, if Charles keeps showing up late like this with half-baked excuses that don’t seem entirely genuine. Maybe Charles is just hoping Erik will get the hint that he’s not as into it and is waiting for Erik will take the initiative to break things off instead of just doing it himself.

As much as he hopes it’s not the case, Erik can’t help but feel annoyed. If Charles doesn’t want to date him, then Charles should just come out and be upfront about it—he’s 32 years old, for g-d’s sake. Erik doesn’t appreciate being strung along.

He’s managed to work himself up into a real righteous fury by the time his phone starts ringing a few minutes later, Charles’ name showing up on the caller ID. “You forgot you left the oven on, or something?” Erik asks flatly when he picks up.

“Erik!” Charles sounds out of breath, like he just got done sprinting. “I am so, so sorry.”

“I thought we agreed on 6:30,” Erik says pointedly, because he doesn’t feel like giving an inch right now.

“I know, and it’s—what time is it now?”

“7:18,” Erik bites out.

“I am so terribly sorry,” Charles says, sounding forlorn now. “I’m on my way right now if it makes any difference, but I understand if you just want to go home. Or maybe you already left?”

Erik tries very hard not to feel moved by how sad Charles sounds. “What happened this time?” he asks stiffly. Last time, Charles had supposedly lost his car keys. The time before that, Charles had blamed helping some kids rescue a cat stuck up a tree for why he was an entire hour late to the restaurant Erik had been sitting in the whole time, getting increasingly pitying looks from the waitress.

“Well,” Charles says carefully in the tone of voice Erik has come to recognize means he’s about to be told a lie. “So there was this dog in the middle of the road, and—”

“You know, I don’t think this is going to work,” Erik says, despite the bitter disappointment welling up in his gut. He’d liked Charles, when Charles was present. He’d thought they’d really clicked. But he also doesn’t want to waste his time. “We tried, but I don’t think our commitment levels are in the same place right now.”

“No, no, wait,” Charles says desperately on the other end of the line, “please, let me explain.”

“No, that’s alright,” Erik says, walking over to the trash can sitting just outside the theater doors and dumping the soda and popcorn inside, before turning and walking out into the parking lot back to his car. “It doesn’t matter.”

“ _Wait_ ,” Charles begs, “I’m almost to the theater. Let me just explain in person, and if you still want to, um, stop seeing each other afterwards that’s fine, but please just give me a chance.”

“I think I’ve already given you three chances,” Erik says, but when he reaches his car he doesn’t get inside, leaning against the back instead. “I’m out in the parking lot.”

“Okay, good,” Charles says, followed by a loud burst of interference white noise, “ _thank_ you.”

A few seconds later, Erik sees Charles jogging into the parking lot still clutching his phone to his ear. Erik lifts a hand to signal him over, and Charles turns and makes a beeline towards him. Erik doesn’t move, leaned back against his car with his arms folded while Charles comes to a stop in front of him, panting as he slides his phone back into his pocket.

“Are you late because you ran here?” Erik asks skeptically.

“Yes—well, no. No.” Charles clears his throat nervously. “Okay. I want to start out by saying how much I really like you, Erik, and I want you to know that I really want this to work.”

“I wanted this to work, too,” Erik confesses, because now that he’s face-to-face with Charles’ earnest blue eyes it’s harder to stay righteously angry, “but you have to understand that it sort of feels like you’re saying one thing but then doing another. Showing up late to three dates in a row doesn’t really give me the feeling that you’re into this.”

“I know, I understand,” Charles says, his mouth an unhappy slant, “but I promise you it’s for a good reason.”

“So you mean to tell me that you _were_ lying all three times,” Erik says flatly.

Charles winces. “I get it. This doesn’t look good. But if you don’t mind giving me a ride back to my place—or we can go to your place, just somewhere we can talk in private—so I can explain the truth.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. He opens his mouth to answer, but suddenly a huge gust of wind rips through the parking lot, strong enough to send a few cars flying through the air and send Erik tumbling head-over-heels for a couple yards until he hits the pavement again with a loud slap, all the air knocked out of his lungs.

“Captain X!” A loud voice shouts from up above, and Erik looks up. Hovering over the parking lot is the Tornado, one of the city’s resident supervillains. “Where are you! We’re not finished with our battle!”

“Charles!” Erik calls out weakly, coughing as he tries to pick himself up and regain his breath. Their argument can wait, he and Charles need to get the hell out of here before they’re flattened. He looks around wildly, but he doesn’t see Charles anywhere—unless, he thinks with dread as he catches sight of a crumpled minivan a few feet away, Charles has already been crushed.

“Come out, come out wherever you are!” The Tornado shouts, followed by the roar of more wind, crashing sounds, and people screaming.

“Tornado!” Another voice shouts, and Erik looks up in time to see the city’s beloved superhero Captain X soar into view, his blue cape flapping in the wind as he comes to a stop in midair with his hands on his hips. “I thought I just handed you off to the police!”

“As if they could keep _me_ locked up!” The Tornado cocks back his arm and hurls another huge gust at Captain X, but Captain X dodges nimbly out of the way. “Fight me!”

“Let’s make this quick, shall we?” Captain X calls back. His voice is oddly familiar. “I was in the middle of something important before you showed up!”

The battle is quick. Erik stays rooted to the spot since he’s unwilling to try and make a break for it and thus draw the Tornado’s attention to himself and become a casualty while Captain X and the Tornado duke it out in the sky overhead, hurling laser beams and cars at each other. The Tornado seems to want to drag things out, constantly shouting out all kinds of insults, but Captain X is brutally efficient—by the time the police finally show up, sirens wailing, Captain X is touching back down on the pavement to hand over the Tornado’s limp, unconscious form.

Slowly, Erik picks himself up. Charles is still nowhere to be seen, and he’s too afraid to study the wrecked minivan more closely. “Charles?! _Charles?!_ ”

Captain X breaks away from his conversation with the police chief, flying across the parking lot in the blink of an eye to where Erik stands. “Come with me, my friend,” he says, and takes Erik’s hand.

“Wh—” Erik starts to say, but never gets to finish as the world distorts around him for a second with a rush of air, and when he gets his bearings again they’re standing in the middle of the movie theater's roof, hidden from view by the huge HOLLYWOOD 20 sign.

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” Captain X is babbling, “I think my heart almost stopped when I saw you go flying. I’m sorry, I should’ve made sure the Tornado was safely put away the first time, but I rushed off because I was already so late to our date and I didn’t want you to dump me.”

“Our date?” Erik asks weakly.

“Oh—right,” Captain X says sheepishly, and then reaches up to take off the small black mask over his eyes, and then it’s Charles smiling up at him, standing there in Captain X’s uniform and cape.

Captain X is Charles. Charles is Captain X.

“You—you’re—” Erik says intelligently, staring at him.

“Yep, I’m Captain X. Surprise!” Charles laughs nervously. “Anyway, this is why I was late. I was fighting the Tornado on the other side of the city.”

Erik takes a steadying breath, and thinks about it. “Our first date. That day was the same day Sharkman tried to destroy the water park.”

“Yes!” Charles nods vigorously.

“And...our second date?” Erik tries to think what supervillain had struck that day but draws a blank.

“That one was the truth,” Charles says with another sheepish grin, “there really was a cat stuck in a tree. But then all the kids wanted autographs and selfies, and...I didn’t want to be rude. They were all so excited to meet me—ah, Captain X, that is, and…” He trails off, before clearing his throat. “Anyway. I understand if this is a bit much and you don’t want to date me. But either way, I’d really appreciate it if you kept this a secret. Please.”

Erik hesitates for a moment. Then he carefully reaches out and takes Charles’ hand, giving him a light squeeze and offering him a tentative smile. “I think all this is a pretty good reason for being late. Does your offer of going back to your place still stand?”

“Yes, yes, _definitely_ yes,” Charles says, breaking into a wide, happy grin as he grips Erik’s hand back. “Let’s go.”

 


	7. Erik helps Charles with his insomnia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Erik helps Charles with his insomnia**

 

It’s pitch black by the time Erik carefully pulls back two of the bars on the huge wrought iron gates at the front of the long driveway leading up to the Xavier mansion with his powers, but he’s done this so many times now he could do it blindfolded in broad daylight. He slips between the bars, making sure his backpack doesn’t get caught, and then reshapes them back to normal once he’s on the other side.

He sets off at a jog up the driveway, his sneakers crunching softly on the gravel. The grounds surrounding Charles’ house are creepy in the dark, the gnarled branches of the trees lining the path dimly silhouetted against the dark sky almost like spindly reaching hands out of the corner of his eyes. When he nears the front of the house he peels off to the side, heading around the back until he’s standing next to a row of prickly hedges looking up at the single lit window on the second floor.

Concentrating, Erik slowly floats himself up towards the light, wobbling a little and pressing his hands against the cold brick to steady himself. Floating is harder than bending a metal gate, but it’s much easier than sneaking in the front door and dodging any of the staff still lingering downstairs. When he finally reaches the ledge outside the window he doesn’t bother knocking, popping the latch with his powers and sliding the window open.

“Erik,” Charles twists around to greet him warmly as Erik climbs inside, rolling onto Charles’ bed with a soft thump.

“I brought snacks,” Erik says as he sits up, dumping his backpack on the bed and making sure the window is shut and locked again. It’s warm and cozy in Charles’ room so he sheds his coat and kicks off his shoes before trotting over to sink down into the spare desk chair Charles keeps around just for him. “And I was able to find a good torrent for all the Daniel Craig James Bond movies, so we have those.”

“Let me just finish a couple more assignments and take a quiz,” Charles says with a slight smile, turning back to his glowing desktop monitor. His browser is open to the University of Rochester’s homepage, where Erik knows he’s taking a couple of online classes to scoop up some extra credits but mostly just to have something to do in the long hours of the night. “Then we can watch.”

“Sure,” Erik says, leaning back in his chair and kicking his socked feet up onto the edge of Charles’ desk and settling in to wait. “And before you ask, yes, I already finished my homework and no, no one’s going to notice I’m missing. My mom’s working overnight tonight.”

“You read my mind,” Charles says with a grin, and reaches over to take one of Erik’s hands as he scrolls down the webpage to open his next assignment.

Erik is content to sit quietly next to him while Charles works, at first studying the various Funko Pop figurines of comic book characters Charles keeps at his desk before studying Charles himself. Charles looks tired, the glow of the monitor doing him no favors in terms of showing just how pale he is and deepening the already dark shadows under his eyes. Erik can’t quite remember exactly when Charles stopped being able to get any amount of a good night’s sleep—maybe last year, when they’d started their freshmen year of high school?—but he tries to sneak over and keep Charles company as much as he can.

Charles claims his extended bouts of insomnia stem from his developing powers, which sometimes seems plausible: his telepathy has been growing in leaps and bounds lately, just like Erik’s electromagnetism. Charles will go on and on about how sometimes it’s hard to quiet his head, and how sometimes his thoughts are just too much all at once, and while Erik believes him to a certain extent he’s not sure it’s the entire truth—lately he’s begun to suspect of Charles _purposefully_ keeping himself awake for some reason, but he’s not sure why.

It doesn’t take Charles long to finish off his assignments and quiz, shutting down his computer for the night. Erik dumps out his backpack and spreads out the chips and cookies he brought while Charles transfers himself from his chair to the bed, getting himself situated in the nest of blankets. Erik plugs in his laptop and climbs up next to him, and they make themselves comfortable: Erik leaned back against some pillows against the wall, and Charles curled up against him with the laptop on the bed in front of them.

“Really?” Erik asks dryly as they wait for the laptop to finish booting up and Charles pulls a ratty stuffed elephant from out beneath the covers. “You still have that thing?”

“Of course I do,” Charles says, setting it next to himself and giving it a fond pat. “You spent ten dollars trying to win this thing for me at the fair back in eighth grade.”

“That stupid game was rigged,” Erik mutters, opening up his movies folder. “Pass me some chips.”

They make it all the way through Casino Royale as the night deepens outside, but by the time they’re halfway through Quantum of Solace Erik’s eyes are drooping, and though he tries to stifle his yawns they’re getting more and more frequent.

“You can sleep if you want,” Charles whispers softly in his ear as Bond and Camille plummet into a sinkhole and get their parachute open at the last second, “you know I don’t mind. You _should_ sleep. You need rest.”

“So do you,” Erik mumbles, because he knows despite the insomnia Charles is so _tired_ , his exhaustion nearly palpable even in the daylight hours. He doesn’t know what’s bothering Charles so deeply that he won’t sleep because Charles never says, even though Erik wishes he would.

“Maybe I’m afraid of sleep,” Charles says lightly, carding his hand through Erik’s hair. “It’s called hypnophobia. I looked it up once.”

“Hey, what if _I_ stayed up all night and you slept?” Erik asks, attempting to push himself up a little so he isn’t sagging down so far into the pillows and blankets. “I can watch over you, and you can finally get some rest.”

“I don’t think—” Charles begins slowly, brow furrowed.

“I brought you this to try,” Erik barrels on, reaching over to his backpack to dig out the bottle of ZzzQuil he’d had to bribe one of the seniors to buy for him since he’s not 18 yet. He couldn’t ask his mother, either, since she’d want to know why he needed it.

“I don’t think I can just turn insomnia off,” Charles points out, but he takes the bottle from Erik and studies the label. “I don’t know, Erik. Maybe I just don’t want to sleep.”

“Charles, you’re exhausted,” Erik says, trying to keep his voice firm without sounding too argumentative. If he argues, Charles will only shut him down. “You _need_ some rest. Maybe your subconscious will feel better if it knows I’m here keeping an eye on things. Like...give you some peace of mind, or something,” he finishes weakly, not really knowing if he’s making any sense.

Charles, however, is silent for a few long moments. He’s still looking at the ZzzQuil bottle but he isn’t reading it. “Okay,” he says hesitantly at last, “maybe I can at least try.”

“Cool,” Erik says, trying not to project his relief too strongly. “You can even take like half a dose if you want, instead of a whole one. Then maybe you won’t feel all weird in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Charles says, slowly picking at the seal on the lid, “okay.”

They rearrange themselves on the bed, Erik sitting up fully while Charles carefully measures out a half dose of the ZzzQuil and swallows it, making a face at the taste. Erik clears away most of the snacks and Charles gets his legs positioned how he wants them, laid out on his side with his head in Erik’s lap.

“You sure you’re okay like this?” he asks as Erik pulls a blanket over him.

“Yeah,” Erik assures him. Even if he does start to feel uncomfortable, it’ll only help get him stay awake.

“Okay. Just…” Charles pauses. “Don’t fall asleep, though, okay? Please stay awake.”

“I won’t,” Erik promises. “I’m gonna put my headphones in so the sound doesn’t bother you and watch the rest of Quantum, and then Skyfall and Spectre. It’ll be almost time to get up and get ready for school by that time.”

“Just stay awake,” Charles repeats intently, twisting his head sideways to look up at Erik.

“I’ll be right here,” Erik says, a little confused by the vehemence in Charles’ voice. “Look, me and this stupid elephant are going to sit here and stare at you all night.” He moves the stuffed animal over next to his knee, angling it so its trunk is level with Charles’ nose.

“He isn’t stupid,” Charles says, but he sounds mollified and even gives a tiny, reluctant grin. He takes a deep breath. “Okay. Going to try and sleep now.”

“Good,” Erik says softly. “Goodnight, Charles.”

“Goodnight, Erik,” Charles whispers, closing his eyes.

Sticking his earbuds into his ears, Erik unpauses the movie and settles in to keep watching. At first he can tell Charles isn’t asleep, just lying still with his eyes closed, but then, slowly but surely, Erik feels him slowly relax, watching Charles’ breathing even out until finally, by the time the credits for Quantum are rolling, it seems Charles has fallen asleep at last. Feeling victorious, Erik stifles a small yawn and opens his Skyfall file.

By the time Bond reaches the casino in Macau, Erik’s eyes are drooping again and it’s getting harder and harder to keep them open. He drank a Redbull before coming over tonight but it doesn’t appear to be doing much to help.

Stay awake, he tells himself firmly. You promised Charles you’d stay awake. You can close your eyes for just a second, but then you’ve gotta stay awake.

He doesn’t even make it to the komodo dragon part.

 

*

 

Erik wakes up in a cold sweat, inhaling sharply as he jerks awake, and it takes him a moment to even remember where he is. On the bed in front of him his laptop’s screen is blank with sleep mode, and his neck is sore from having fallen asleep sitting up in Charles’ bed.

Down in his lap, Charles is thrashing in his sleep, the stillness of his legs only serving to emphasize how his arms and upper torso flail, caught up in some kind of ugly nightmare. Shakily, his own heart still racing, Erik grabs him and gives him a rough shake.

“Charles, _Charles_ , wake up,” he says, trying not to raise his voice too much. “Wake up, it’s alright, you’re okay.”

Charles’ eyes shoot open with a strangled gasp, wide and frightened. “He was here,” he says, gripping Erik’s arm almost painfully tight. “He got in, he was here.”

“What?” Erik asks blearily, confused and still slightly disorientated. He can’t remember the full details of the dream he’d been having, just the sensation of being chased by...something. Something evil. “What are you talking about?”

“You promised you wouldn’t fall asleep,” Charles whispers, trembling in Erik’s lap. “You _promised._ This is why I can’t sleep. This is why I shouldn’t sleep. Oh god, he was _here._ ”

“What?” Erik shakes his head. He can feel the lock on the door and the locks on all the windows. None of them have been touched. “Charles, no one was here. It was just a bad dream.”

Charles shakes his head, pointing wordlessly.

Across the room on the floor, all of Charles’ Funko Pop toys have been perfectly lined up on the carpet, turned to face the bed. All of their heads have been pulled off and crushed, the ruined pieces tossed into a pile on the rug with the stuffed elephant’s head sitting on top, cotton stuffing gently trailing out of the hole in its face where its trunk used to be.

 


	8. Shark!Erik AU: Marine biologist Charles makes a startling discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Diving! :D Someone goes diving for the first time. Friendly non-bitey sharks could be involved.**

 

Charles twists the valve on the top of the tank with a soft hiss, turning it all the way open before giving it one half-turn back. He leans down to check the pressure gauge clipped to his buoyancy control device, watching as the little red arm swings all the way over to 3200 psi. He grabs the main regulator, clearing it a couple times in two harsh bursts of air, testing to make sure there are no leaks in the hose, and grabs the BCD inflator and gives that a couple presses as well, filling the jacket’s air pockets a third of the way.

It’s a beautiful day, the air warm and salty, the breeze only blowing at five knots out of the southeast, making the red and white dive flag flap softly overhead. The water is crystal clear and pool blue, almost neon where white sand covers the bottom and turquoise where the reef begins, small silver flashes indicating the presence of fish. Here and there on the surface orange clumps of sargasso float past on the current, and Charles makes a mental note to scoop some up in a net to dump in a bucket before they leave, if only because it’s fun to examine the tiny shrimps and fishes, and if they’re lucky, a seahorse or two, that live amongst the spindly stalks and leaves.

The boat bobs gently up and down, riding the short swells of waves and unbalancing him a little as he struggles into his wetsuit, the fabric dragging against his legs as he yanks it up. It won’t be any easier getting it off later after the dive—if anything, it’ll cling more once it’s wet. He overcompensates and has to catch himself on the edge of the boat’s gunwale with a yelp, grabbing onto his tank too before he knocks it over.

It can be argued that everything about scuba diving is a struggle, but in the end the hassle is more than worth it.

“You suited up yet, Professor?” Armando asks with a grin, coming back down from the bow of the boat where he’d been tying them to one of the mooring buoys used on the reef to prevent people from dragging their boat anchors through the coral. He takes over Charles’ hold on the tank, lying it down flat on the deck.

“Almost,” Charles answers, chagrined. He might have to lug around awkward, heavy equipment in order to make today’s dive, but his grad student does not—Armando’s mutation will handle everything for him the moment he slips beneath the surface. He finishes pulling on the wetsuit, zipping it up and trying not to feel claustrophobic as it cinches him in tightly. The sensation will abate once he’s underwater but in the meantime he has to take a few breaths and concentrate not on feeling nauseous.

“Safety check,” Armando announces, bending over to check over Charles’ regulator and tank, making sure it’s strapped tightly into the BCD jacket. “You nervous?”

“A little,” Charles admits, shoving his feet into his dive booties and zipping those closed as well. He grabs his mask and checks the strap, clipping his snorkel on the side, and then buckles on his weight belt around his waist. He used ten-pound weights in the pool but to compensate for the saltwater of the ocean he’s using twenty-pound weights today instead. He picks up his fins, sliding past Armando to perch on the railing all the way aft at the stern of the boat. He’s a little anxious, heartbeat quickening in his chest, but any trepidation he feels about descending down to the most alien environment planet earth has to offer is backed by heady excitement. “It’s one thing practicing in the pool where the surface is twelve feet away at most, but now we’re going down forty.”

“I just still can’t believe you only just got certified,” Armando says with a laugh, straightening as Charles slips his fins on over his booties one by one. “Your tank’s all set, by the way. But how did you get all your data before now?”

Charles grins. “Grad students who wanted A’s.”

He stands up and shuffles around, clumsy with the fins on his feet. Armando hoists up the tank and BCD, slipping the jacket onto Charles’ broad shoulders and holding him steady as a new set of waves rocks the boat just as Charles takes the heavy weight of the tank. Charles stays standing while he does up all the buckles of the jacket, two across his chest, one around his waist just above his weight belt, and one awkwardly between his legs from behind that connects to the one around his waist. By the time he’s strapped in he’s starting to feel overheated, trapped and confined in the wetsuit and when he manages to swing himself back around and sit heavily on the railing with his back to the water, tank hanging out over the side, he’s panting, hot and uncomfortable.

“I’ll try to remember to keep my shields lowered so your telepathy gets in,” Armando says, tapping his temple as Charles slides his mask on, the rubber strap tugging on his dry hair. As soon as he presses it onto his face the glass fogs up immediately from the heat of his skin. “But just in case, you remember all the hand signals?”

“I remember,” Charles confirms, sliding a hand down the hose until he finds his regulator. He adds a couple more puffs of air into his BCD. “Alright, I’m going in before I die of heatstroke.”

“Water temp’s 87,” Armando says with a laugh, “so it’ll be nice and cool for you.”

“30,” Charles corrects, “be sensible.” He pushes the reg’s mouthpiece into his mouth, biting down on the rubber grip gently and taking a few slow, deep breaths of tank air. It’s sharp and dry on his lungs compared to the regular atmosphere air, but he made sure to drink plenty of water on their way out to the reef so he shouldn’t be in danger of getting dehydrated.

Armando gives him the all-clear, pointer finger and thumb forming the okay circle, so without further hesitation Charles places one hand over his mask and regulator, pressing both devices gently down against his face, and the other over the buckle of his weight belt, and then leans backwards, letting the weight of the tank roll him over the side of the boat and into the water below with a splash.

The water is a cool relief at once, saturating through his wetsuit and even making him shiver as he bobs back up to the surface, the BCD doing its job and keeping him floating despite the heavy tank and weight belt. Charles lets go of his face and forms a fist, lifting it up and setting it briefly on the top of his head in the universal diver’s okay sign, idly kicking with his fins and swimming backwards away from the boat. He already feels better now that he’s in the water, the wetsuit less confining and tight and the uncomfortable weight of the tank negated.

He takes his mask back off and dunks it underwater, clearing out the fog. His nerves are tingling, anticipation tinged with the ever-present underlying nervousness. Calm, he reminds himself, taking another deep breath. He splashes water on his face, blinking against the salt, and then slides his mask back on, adjusting it carefully and tucking the snorkel back out of his way. _I’m going down._

 _See you there_ , Armando answers, pushing the thought out carefully past the natural, high-walled defenses his mutation gives his mind. Wearing only his swimming trunks, he swan dives off the side of the boat and doesn’t resurface.

Nothing left to do but join him. With a glance at the waterproof watch on his wrist to note the time, Charles takes a deep breath and holds it, while deflating all the air in his BCD in a rush of bubbles. He immediately starts to sink, dragged down by all the weight he’s wearing, and when the top of his tempered-glass mask is about level with the surface of the water he exhales slowly in one long breath. This leaves his lungs just as empty as his BCD, and helps him achieve neutral buoyancy, neither sinking nor floating, instead hovering a few feet below the surface. He starts breathing normally after that, always through his mouth, drawing in slightly slower, deeper breaths than he normally would in order to conserve air. There will be no more holding his breath for the rest of his dive—not unless he wants to build up dangerous levels of nitrogen in his body.

Pressure is already building up in his ears so Charles lifts one hand to plug his nose, blowing out hard to equalize— _equalize early and often_ , just as the saying goes. Keeping himself vertical in the water column, Charles lets himself descend a little more, sinking down slowly feet-first and getting a good look around for the first time.

He’s entered an entirely different world. Sunlight reflects off of brightly-colored corals, coming in all shapes and sizes, both small and massive where they sprawl out across the ocean floor. Fish are everywhere, hanging in lazy schools above the reef or darting in between all the nooks and crannies the coral has to offer, iridescent scales flashing in the sun. In between his loud inhales and bubble-ladened exhales, Charles can hear the soft, continuous clicking, like hundreds of tiny crickets, that he knows is actually from the coral.

Beyond that the silence presses in around his head, the ocean acting like one huge, smothering blanket on his telepathy. They’re only a mile or two offshore, human life still well within his natural range, but he might as well be on the moon now for all that he can hear anyone’s thoughts beside his own. It’s ironic, given how sound travels much faster through water than air and yet his telepathy has been all but stifled. Even so, Charles maintains his slow and steady descent, maintaining his calm focus as he nears the bottom, equalizing the pressure in his ears when necessary.

He looks back up at the surface and has a strange sense of vertigo for a moment, the shifting waves overhead momentarily disorientating him. He tears his gaze away and focuses on the still, motionless coral until the sensation passes.

 _Welcome to the deep_ , Armando thinks at him, gliding up from the direction of the main reef and giving him a jaunty wave. His grad student has grown matching sets of gills on either side of his throat, as well as what look like clear eyelids over his eyes and webbed hands and feet. His mutation for adapting is far more useful for this terrain than telepathy. _Settling in alright?_

 _Just fine,_ Charles assures him, and at least they don’t have to communicate solely through hand signals or writing things out on a chalkboard. They also don’t have to worry too much about staying within direct sight of each other the entire time either since they can stay in constant contact like this. _Get started on collecting those samples, I’ll catch up in a moment._

 _You got it, Prof._ With a powerful kick Armando takes off, moving through the water like he was born in it, already reaching into the pocket of his trunks for the sample bags he has stored there. Charles considers reminding him about the two specific coral types they’re here to look for, but decides against it as his student disappears around the edge of a particularly tall outcrop. Armando knows what he’s doing, that’s why Charles invited him on this trip in the first place.

Charles checks his pressure gauge. 3100 psi. He’s still got plenty of air and time. He kicks steadily with his fins, tilting forward in the water so that now he’s horizontal as he swims, the tank settling squarely on his back. He stays low over the coral, though he’s careful not to touch it, leaving everything undisturbed save for the fleeing fish as he passes by, a silent observer. He carries on like this for several kick cycles, counting up to thirty in his head, before he abruptly notices that all the fish in the area have vanished.

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, goosebumps breaking out across his skin beneath his wetsuit, prickling with the distinct feeling of being watched. Charles kicks back up, inflating his BCD with a tiny burst of air so he can revert back to being vertical, and turns around.

Distances are hard to figure underwater. All objects appear 33% larger beneath the waves than they do above, as well as 25% closer, so when Charles finds himself staring down cold, glittering eyes and grey, sandpapery skin, he freezes, unsure how much distance is between him and the—shark? Man?

His upper half is human, thin yet muscular, with chiseled cheekbones and eyes the color of seaglass. His short-cropped hair waves idly in the water, dreamily slow, but the rest of him brims with what seems like barely-contained violence; the long, sharp lines of his upper body tapering off into the body of what is unmistakably a shark, several feet long and complete with the trademark tail.

Tentatively, Charles reaches out with his mind. _Mutant?_

He receives no answer, or at least none that he can understand—his thoughts slide off the sharkman’s mind like water drops on glass. The sharkman must feel something from him, though, because he gives a slow, wide smile, revealing several rows of sharp, jagged teeth.

Charles jerks a little when the sharkman drifts closer, sliding towards him menacingly. He pauses when he sees Charles flinch, however, and holds up two very-human arms in a gesture of meaning no harm, and Charles realizes that he hasn’t drawn breath in a long time, inhaling sharply and almost choking a little on the dry air. His heart is pounding, torn between the instinct of fight-and-flight in the face of such an obvious predator, even though logically he knows he doesn’t stand a chance, bulky and awkward in all his gear while the sharkman looks like he can cut through the water like a bullet if he wants to.

And then he receives an answering thought, carefully formed and pressed into his mind with all the force of the tides, echoing with the darkest depths of the ocean. _Erik._

Charles winces, shaking his head a little to clear his mind from the residual echoes washing around in his skull like waves against the shore. _Erik?_

 _Erik_ , the sharkman repeats, pressing his palm against his bare chest, and Charles understands.

 _Charles_ , he says, mirroring him. Fear and shock is wearing off, replaced with growing excitement—he’s just made contact with something, some _one_ the world has never seen before. _My name is Charles._

 _Charles_ , Erik repeats, giving another slow, terrifying smile but once Charles gets past the teeth clearly meant for ripping anything they touch to shreds, he finds it’s actually rather lovely. The sharkman swims closer still, hanging vertically in the water like Charles and towering over him, his human torso alone longer than Charles’ is without the few extra feet his shark half gives him. He lifts his other hand, offering out what Charles identifies as an oyster shell, overgrown with barnacles and algae, which is odd because they’re miles from any oyster beds that he knows of, being out on a reef. _Charles._

After a small pause Charles realizes that he’s meant to take the shell, so he reaches out slowly, broadcasting all his movements in case Erik is prone to harsh reactions, and deftly lifts the shell out of Erik’s palm. He realizes it’s already been cracked open before so it’s easy to do again, and opens the shell with both of his hands and staring down at the single large, perfectly formed pearl that sits inside.

 _Oh_ , he says, looking back up and hoping that Erik can see his smile despite the regulator in his mouth, _it’s beautiful._

 _For you_ , Erik answers, sounding pleased as he smiles back again, eyes raking across Charles with a new kind of intent that makes him shiver, _my mate._

 


	9. Theater AU: Charles nails the death scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Charles/Erik tearfully singing to a dying Erik/Charles in their arms...Living character gets overwhelmed with sadness and grief, so the dying character continues singing in order to console the other.**

 

Erik is in the middle of running his sword through his opponent, steel blade slipping fatally in between ribs with a wet crunch of bone, when he hears it. The battle is loud and raging all around him, the screams and cries of other men backed by the heavy thuds and crashes of metal on metal, but the sound cuts straight through all of it, an arrow piercing directly into his heart like a bullseye.

It’s somewhere between a choked-off cry and breathy gasp, high and pained with a tinge of shocked surprise. Erik whirls around, his gaze slicing through the chaos of battle and landing on Charles, just in time to watch his enemy yank his sword back out of Charles’ stomach, Charles’ entire body jerking with the motion, giving another helpless, involuntary whimper, swaying in slow motion.

When he falls, Erik’s entire world goes crashing down with him.

Erik sees red.

He doesn’t remember the next few seconds—minutes, hours?—as everything becomes a wild blur. He doesn’t remember charging through the battlefield with an inhuman roar, laying waste to any foe who gets in his way, bloodlust taking over every last reserve of his control. Someone slashes at his arm and he doesn’t even feel the cut he gains, whirling around and slicing horizontally across their chest, sending them careening backwards in a spray of blood. Before he knows it he’s standing in a circle of bodies, chest heaving and splattered in dark, wet, red, the abrupt silence of a battle won ringing in his ears.

Erik doesn’t care.

He lets his sword fall from his hand, leaving it to clatter down against someone’s smashed and ruined breastplate. He picks his way over to where Charles has fallen, finding him instantly amongst the ruin all around them, crumbled on his side in the muddy grass.

“Charles,” he chokes out, dropping to his knees beside him, and with shaking hands he turns Charles over onto his back, pulling him halfway into his lap.

Charles is still alive, his breaths coming in short, painful and aborted gasps, his face so white that Erik can no longer count the galaxy of freckles he knows by heart that splay out across his lovely cheeks and nose. Even his dear mouth is pale, no longer as red as one of the freshly-plucked strawberries they’d steal from the kitchens together in their youth, and his blue eyes are wide and frightened until they land on Erik’s face, trying to summon up a smile.

“My—lord,” he manages to say, but Erik shakes his head.

“Don’t speak,” Erik says, smoothing one rough, sword-calloused palm across Charles’ brow, brushing back his sweat-matted hair from his forehead, “save your strength, darling, it’s going to be alright.”

Charles lets out a shaky breath that tries to be a laugh, shaking his own head in turn. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, and Erik can feel him trembling in his grasp, one of his hands trying to grasp onto Erik’s chainmail shirt but his fingers don’t quite have the strength, slipping loose. “I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Erik snaps, so vehemently that Charles closes his eyes for a long moment. The ringing in his ears is growing louder and he realizes that he’s shaking too, his whole body tight and quivering as he holds Charles in his arms, utterly helpless to do anything but watch as he slowly dies. “No, you can’t—it’s going to be fine, Charles. It’s going to be fine.”

“You’ll be fine,” Charles breathes, cracking his eyes open again, foggy and distant and not at all like the clear blue that Erik fell in love with so many years ago, always sparkling brightly with mischief and affection. “You’ll be—” He coughs wetly, body seizing, and Erik doesn’t have to look in order to know that more red is leaking out beneath Charles’ doublet, staining the once-pristine magenta and purple colors. Erik’s colors.

Erik grasps Charles’ hand, holding it up to his own chainmail for him. “Not without you,” he says, his voice cracking, “it wasn’t supposed to—I can’t do this without you.”

“You will,” Charles whispers, drawing in another painful breath, “you’ll be so good, Erik, the people—the people will—love y—” He coughs, gasping weakly for breath that won’t come, his lungs unable to fill all the way with air and filling instead with blood.

“I love _you_ ,” Erik says fiercely, because he doesn’t care about what the people think, it’s never been about solely about winning the throne and overthrowing the previous tyrant king, it’s always been about Charles, making the realm safer for him and Charles to love each other openly, free and without fear. “Don’t go,” he says, quieter, pleading, unashamed to beg this man to stay, “please don’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to go,” Charles says, the words riding the edge of a ragged sob that rips its way out past his lips, terror creeping into his weak and fading voice, “I don’t—I’m— _Erik_ —”

“Shh,” Erik soothes him even as he feels his heart shattering, jagged shards cutting to the bone, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I love you. I’m here.”

“Erik,” Charles whispers, eyes fluttering shut, “don’t—don’t leave me.”

Erik curls down over him, pressing their foreheads together, their breath mingling on every exhale, even as Charles’ grows fainter and fainter. Erik starts to hum, an old nursery song that they would sing together when they were small, Erik a lord’s son and Charles a servant’s son but nevertheless his one and only friend, growing up together in the cold, desolate moorlands. Charles makes a small noise of recognition, stirring slightly in Erik’s hold so Erik starts to sing, his voice shaky and thin even to his own ears.

“ _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are grey,_ ” Erik croons, and the words are too much, bringing up hundreds of memories of Charles lighting up Erik’s life, a bright beacon of hope that Erik always saw in his future except now it’s slowly slipping away. His voice thickens, wet, hot tears building up in his eyes and making his vision blurry as he tries to keep going. “ _You never know, dear, how much I love—_ ” he breaks off with a sob, the water leaking down his cheeks as he shakes apart, heartbroken. “I love you, Charles, I love you _so much_ —”

“ _You never know, dear, how much I love you,_ ” Charles sings faintly, picking up the tune with one last, soft breath, “ _please don’t...take my...sunshine...away…_ ” The last word is a quiet sigh, trailing off into empty silence, and Charles falls still.

He’s gone.

Erik stays where he is, leaned down over Charles as close as he can possibly be, the world growing dark around him. The silence is heavy, total and absolute, and so is the stillness—nobody moves, as if hardly even daring to breathe.

Then he shifts down to where his lips brush against Charles’ and murmurs, “You were brilliant,” and then kisses him full on the mouth, right in front of everyone.

Charles opens his eyes, warm and alive, laughing softly as the spotlight overhead blazes back on, bathing them in a bright stream of light as the audience goes wild, leaping to their feet with cheers and applause. “You were too,” he says breathlessly, accepting a hand back up to his feet, springing up light and nimble.

Erik keeps his hold on Charles’ hand even as they both rotate to face the crowd fully, looking out across the jam-packed theater, not a single person in the house remaining sitting as they clap. Together they bow low in thanks, a few other members of the cast taking that as their cue to file out onto the stage too, forming a long line and taking bows of their own, and it seems like the cheering keeps going on and on and on.

Someone tosses a rose onto the stage, red and with a thornless stem, landing right at Erik’s feet. He picks it up with his free hand as he straightens, taking a small step back and motioning to Charles for the crowd, indicating that they should recognize his brilliance a little more and they obey, starting up another wild cheer that has Charles waving, cheeks tinged red with embarrassment.

He tries to turn and get them to do the same for Erik but Erik intercepts him, stepping back up by Charles’ side and handing him the rose, just before he dips Charles down in another searing kiss that truly brings down the house.

 


	10. Bleach AU: Captain Lehnsherr and Captain Xavier play hooky together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: A happy time/moment in[Hollowed Whole](http://archiveofourown.org/works/681025/chapters/1249137) 'verse with Charles and Erik and maybe other friends just enjoying themselves. FLUFF.**

 

Sunlight is warm on his eyelids. The sheets are soft against his bare skin, rasping softly when he shifts minutely, stretching without fully waking. A window must be open, because a soft breeze stirs, the tree leaves outside whispering while the birds chirp, filling the otherwise quiet and peaceful morning with song. His reiatsu, spirit pressure that gives him strength and power, churns idly, lazy and content as it coils slowly with another reiatsu, twining together so closely that in some areas it’s hard to feel where he ends and the other begins.

Something warm and wet is trailing around his navel. 

Charles cracks open his eyes, tilting his head up just far enough to look down the bed. “What are you doing,” he croaks, voice gravelly with sleep and something else that curls hot and potent in his belly.

Erik doesn’t answer at first, his tongue continuing its tantalizing path across Charles’ skin, completing its circle before he finally looks up, his usual hard and sharp lines softened in the early morning light. His hair is tousled, still sleep-rumpled, and the casual, lazy smile he gives when he sees Charles is awake momentarily takes Charles’ breath away.

“Good morning,” Erik rumbles, his large, warm hands resting on either side of Charles’ waist, thumbs tracing dual circles around Charles’ hip bones. He’s sprawled out between Charles’ legs, all that contained strength and power relaxed and at ease.

“Hi,” Charles answers, extending one arm down towards him to slide his fingers through what he can reach of Erik’s hair. Erik tilts his head forward into Charles’ hand, “Come up here.”

“What’s wrong with down here?” Erik asks with a smirk but then obeys, sliding up onto his knees in a luxurious full-body stretch, the flex of his muscles mesmerizing, before crawling up over Charles and settling down on top of him with familiar, comforting weight. “Hi.”

“Now it’s a good morning,” Charles murmurs, and then pulls him down into a kiss.

Erik kisses him languidly, slow and deep and unhurried in their private little universe of two, his reiatsu thrumming happily around Charles’ with pure, unrefined contentment. “I can make it a better morning,” he says, right against Charles’ lips, and Charles feels a finger slide up between his legs to probe at his hole, still wet and loose from the night before.

“Can you,” Charles breathes, and then bites his lip and groans when the finger slides in, careful but not without intent. He spreads his legs a little more, going boneless on the mattress and slowly rocking his hips up against Erik’s hand as Erik stretches him open, rubbing his finger back and forth against Charles’ inner walls with soft wet sounds.

“Come on, Charles,” Erik says, watching his face as he slides a second finger inside him, fucking him with just the two as Charles starts to pant softly, “come on, darling, just like this.”

Charles’ cock is hard, trapped where it is somewhere between them and the sheets, but he doesn’t have enough leverage to do anything about it. He can only thrust slightly against Erik’s fingers, head thrown back against the pillows as pleasure draws tight in his lower belly. Erik changes his angle ever so slightly so that he presses against that perfect, exact spot—

Charles comes with a soft sigh, and where he was boneless before now he’s utterly liquified, falling limp and relaxed beneath Erik as he spurts white, tacky come across the sheets. Erik sits up slightly, pulling his fingers out of Charles in favor of wrapping his hand around his own cock, jacking himself fast and rough while his gaze remains locked on Charles’ face, Charles looking up at him with sleepy, half-lidded eyes and watching.

He loves the sound Erik makes when he comes every time, somewhere between a gasp and a sigh, a small hitch of breath that rides on a soft groan as he shakes apart. He feels the warm splatter of Erik’s come on his stomach before Erik half-collapses on top of him, making Charles grunt.

“Now it’s a  _ great _ morning,” Erik says, breathless but entirely pleased with himself, and Charles can’t help the small laugh that escapes him, summoning up the strength to lift a hand and card through Erik’s hair.

“Get off of me,” he says, but he can’t quite filter out all of the fondness in his voice to make himself sound anywhere near threatening. His love for Erik is soul deep, almost heartaching in breadth but sweet; every fiber of his being aligning with every fiber of Erik’s, two halves of the same whole.

“Why,” Erik says, his voice muffled on the account of his face buried somewhere in the vicinity of Charles’ throat, “so you can send me off to do paperwork all day?”

“Well, it isn’t going to do itself,” Charles answers lightly, trying and failing not to smile in amusement. Even so, his other hand finds its way down along the muscled expanse of Erik’s back, tracing up and down the ridges of his spine as if to hold him down in place and make him stay.

Now that they’re both Captains of their respective Divisions, seeing each other has gotten more and more difficult, even with their joint efforts on having the Third and Fifth Divisions collaborate more than is normal for the Gotei 13. The Seireitei is in a time of peace, with Soul Society functioning smoothly and quietly, and even the rate of Hollow attacks in the Material World is steady and even, the three worlds in sync and at balance, but it seems like a Captain’s duty never ends regardless—the paperwork in particular is soberingly mountainous.

Erik rolls off of him without warning, straight to the side of the bed. He slings his legs over the edge and stands up, dressing in a flurry of motions while Charles lies where he’s been left, blinking.

“I know duty calls,” he says slowly, “but I didn’t mean for you to go quite so quickly.”

“I have an idea,” Erik answers over his shoulder, hands working at retying the front of his uniform, “but don’t rush to get up, stay put awhile.”

“Unlike you,” Charles feels the need to point out dryly.

Erik flicks his wrist and his Zanpakutō slots neatly into place at his side, the long, gently curving sheath nowhere close to the ground on the account of Erik’s long legs. Charles never sees the need to wear his sword openly while he’s in the Seireitei or any of the Gotei 13 general headquarters, preferring to summon it only if need be—which, he likes to tell Erik, is close to never—but Erik likes keeping his at close hand, wrapped hilt resting comfortably at his hip.

“Idea isn’t going to implement itself,” Erik says, picking up one of the two white Captain’s haoris that had been tossed a tad unceremoniously onto the ground last night, along with a lot of other articles of clothing for that matter. By the presence of sleeves alone Charles can immediately tell that it’s his, but Erik shakes it out anyway, displaying the large number 5 for Charles’ Division stitched on the back with black thread.

“Wear it anyway, I dare you,” Charles says, and Erik snorts.

“It’d be the one morning that I’d run into the Commander, too,” he says, laying it gently on the side of the bed, “and he’d probably choke.”

“Worth it, then, I’d say,” Charles says loftily, and Erik flips him a quick grin as he picks up his own haori, sleeveless and with a large number 3 stitched on the back, and shrugs it on, making sure it lies flat against his black robes underneath. As always, he cuts a striking figure in his full Captain’s uniform, tall and imposing, but Charles can never see the intimidating factor that Erik is famous for within the Gotei 13—he can only ever see his Erik, though he supposes his is a special case.

Erik doesn’t answer at first, turning back to face the bed, his eyes ranging across Charles for a long moment. “Look at you,” he says, prowling closer, and Charles tips him a smile, stretching where he lies naked on the sheets.

“Like what you see?”

“You already know the answer to that,” Erik murmurs, leaning down over the bed to kiss him, open-mouthed with their tongues sliding together for a few perfect moments before he abruptly withdraws again. “I would tell you not to get up, but I know you won’t listen, so—get up, but slowly.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve completely forgotten that you’re Captain over me,” Charles answers, raising his eyebrows, and Erik merely snorts again, exasperated but fond, and then disappears in a small shift of pressure, flash stepping at super speed from the room.

Alone, Charles lets out a soft sigh. It’s a subtle change, without Erik in the room, but things seem duller, less sharp and defined without Erik present to brighten them; a cloud covering the sun. At least he can still sense Erik’s reiatsu, familiar like a beacon amidst the ocean of spirit pressures housed in the Seireitei, no matter how far apart physically they are.

He debates staying in bed a little longer just to prove to Erik that he’s capable of it, but the come on his stomach is starting to dry, making him itchy and, he thinks ruefully as he sits up, he was never good at being idle for long anyway. He cleans himself off and dons his own Captain uniform, sliding his arms through the sleeves of his haori and letting it settle across his back, heavy with responsibility. At least he doesn’t have to bear it alone.

The barracks of the Fifth Division are quiet this morning despite the fact that Charles is rising at a later hour than he usually does. He slips out of his private quarters, walking sedately beneath the awning that leads from the living quarters to the more official office building. It’s sunny out today, not a cloud in the sky, but Charles knows better—he can feel the building pressure far off in the distance of an oncoming storm. They come often during the summer season, rolling in on cold winds that are a relief from the heat, violent and wild while they rage for an hour or two before gradually subsiding, dissipating quietly, leaving the world clear and refreshed.

Charles likes the rain, if only for that reason alone.

He slides back the door to his office and leaves it open as he steps inside. No one is already here waiting for him, which is a small relief. Someone has  _ been _ here, however, because a small cup of still-steaming tea rests conspicuously on the side of his desk. He feels out residual reiatsu traces left in the air, and smiles. Erik.

Charles settles himself behind his desk, taking a long sip of tea before pulling the closest stack of papers towards him and gets to work. He loses himself in the steady, rhythmic busywork for awhile, filling in blanks with his crisp penmanship and signing his name where necessary. He allows his thoughts to wander idly in the meantime, drifting over a range of topics he needs to discuss with his Lieutenant and top-seated Division members the next time they have a meeting, as well as what he wants to say in his appointment with the Captain Commander of the Gotei 13 he has tomorrow. He’s trying to build a case for their squads to be less reactive and more proactive—waiting to send men to the Material World after hearing about Hollow attacks isn’t enough, and Charles believes that having regularly patrolling units would be far more efficient as well as bring down the number of Plus casualties. 

He already knows what Shaw is going to say. He’ll listen and be politely interested in that borderline-condescending way of his, but then he’ll tell Charles that he won’t seriously consider the notion until he has the backing of at least seven out of the thirteen Captains. Charles knows for certain that he has support from at least four, and with himself it makes five while he works on the other two, but it still won’t hurt to keep pushing the issue with Shaw. Otherwise nothing will ever change.

He taps his pen thoughtfully, taking another sip of tea. It’s gone lukewarm now, and a glance up at the open door shows the shadows outside are small, so it must be noon or close to it. The cons of spending most of the morning in bed—now half the day is already gone.

“Charles.” Erik appears in the doorway with a small shift of pressure, the invisible spirit particles in the air swirling wildly at the sudden arrival of a strong, imposing presence, like a reef shark scattering minnows. Charles raises an eyebrow, surprised to see him back. “Don’t look at me like that, nothing’s wrong. Get up, let’s go.”

“That’s reassuring,” Charles says dryly but he stands, unfurling himself from his chair and stretching. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Erik assures him, “just come with me.”

Charles stops by the edge of his desk, folding his arms and leaning his hip against the solid wood. “What’s this about? I really do have paperwork, you know.”

Erik makes an impatient sound but crosses the room towards him, wetting his thumb and brushing it deftly against Charles’ cheek to wipe away what is probably an ink stain. “Your Lieutenant is going to handle it for you today. I already spoke to him.”

“Spoke to him, or showed your teeth and pretended to look like you were a second away from drawing your Zanpakutō?” Charles asks wryly. “I know how you operate, Erik, let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Erik grins, showing his teeth on purpose. “It’s effective, isn’t it.” 

“You are absolutely ridiculous,” Charles states, but his hand is already curling at Erik’s hip, the need for contact instinctive and natural. He knows a thousand times better than to let Erik talk him out of actually doing their jobs but the thing is, they actually do their jobs all the time. It’s summer and the Seireitei is quiet—surely just this once won’t hurt.

“Made a decision yet,” Erik asks, his grin turned soft and lazily amused, because he knows just as well as Charles does that when it comes to each other, well. Duties be damned.

“Don’t make this a habit,” Charles starts to warn him, but Erik merely takes his hand.

“You’re more than a habit,” he says casually, like he isn’t the Gotei 13’s most brusque, unapproachable Captain, prone to snapping at underlings and fellow Captains alike with little to no differentiation, like he doesn’t save up every last iota of the sweetness he’s perfectly capable of just for Charles. “Follow me.”

When Erik takes off at flashstep, Charles is right beside him.

*

 

It’s too nice of a day to be in a hospital let alone indoors, so Logan does his morning rounds, secures himself a full bottle of sake, and gives himself the rest of the day off. Anna Marie won’t mind. Much.

There’s a small forest on the western edge of the Seireitei that’s often used as a training ground for the Academy, the recruits under orders to carry out exercises and drills and sometimes even full mock-missions, bounding through the trees in hopes of proving themselves as best. Today it will be quiet, so deep into the summer that classes are out, so Logan makes for the forest, bounding along the rooftops of the buildings at flashstep to avoid having to stop and talk to anyone on the streets below.

It’s cool in the shade of the leaves, where the sunlight can only filter through in patches. Logan finds himself a suitable tree with a suitable branch and plants himself on it, back against the old, thick trunk, and with any luck he won’t have to move again until long after sundown. He takes a liberal swig from the bottle, letting the sake slide down his throat. This is what summer is truly for.

His peace and quiet lasts for a grand total of five minutes, because he’s abruptly jolted out of his stupor by the fast approach of one—no,  _ two _ highly-condensed spirit pressures. It takes him a moment to parse out the separation between the two, as they’re so tightly linked that the lines that define them are blurred, and once he does he nearly falls out of his tree: those are two Captain-levels heading straight for him. 

Shit.

Quickly, he gathers up his own reiatsu, tucking it down within his core and stifling it, crushing it down to a tiny sphere of energy that’s only detectable if you’re actually looking for it. As Vice-Captain of the Fourth Division, his reiatsu control is second only to his Captain’s, so unless she’s pissed enough to send her fellow Captains on a hunt for him (doubtful, as he can’t think of any one Captain off the top of his head who would dare lower themselves to grunt work like that, let alone two of them), they should pass him right by whether they’re actually looking for him or not.

Of course, they both come to a stop right beneath his tree.

As soon as he sees who it is, Logan has to hold back a groan. Lehnsherr and Xavier. It would be so much easier to take them seriously as Captains if he couldn’t clearly recall them as two jumped up little shits at the Academy, prodigies in their own right for certain but so goddamn smug about it. Lehnsherr in particular always had a penchant for grinding down every last one of Logan’s nerves to dust, but at least Xavier had the ability to  _ act _ humble. Occasionally.

There are reasons why Logan doesn’t teach anymore, and not all of them have to do with finally accepting Vice-Captaincy. Kids these days.

Still, as Captains, however, Logan does harbor a certain grudging respect for both of them. Lehnsherr has a ruthlessness that Logan can get behind, leading his Division with military precision and efficiency that almost puts the Second Division to shame. Xavier is a little more relaxed, but he’s scary in a different way; mellowed out from his Academy days, and always polite, genuinely kind, and unassuming—all while fierce and deadly power lurks just beneath his placid surface. Standing in Xavier’s presence is not unlike being in a very small boat while a very large whale passes by inches underneath, and it’s all up in the air on whether or not the whale feels like surfacing.

“Is this really the same clearing,” Xavier is saying, his voice drifting up over the singing insects to Logan’s keen ears, “or have you just stopped at random and hoped I’d go along with it?”

“This has to be it,” Lehnsherr answers, and it’s not at all the voice Logan has come to recognize over the past few decades, usually short and clipped, always directly to the point and never leaving room for anything more. Instead he sounds almost like he’s about to  _ laugh _ , amused and exasperated as he regards Xavier, who’s a full head shorter than him. “This tree here—it has to be the one we’d study under.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a specific tree,” Xavier answers, looking like he’s trying hard not to smile and failing spectacularly. He takes Lehnsherr’s hand, sliding their fingers together.

Logan just about holds his breath. That’s right, he’d nearly forgotten. Lehnsherr and Xavier are fucking. It’s not broadcasted, rather more like the Gotei 13’s most open secret, which makes sense given the fact that their reiatsu are so obviously compatible and rarely not blended together—even the greenest Academy recruit would be able to feel it.

Beyond the obvious, Logan has a sharp nose. He can  _ smell _ Lehnsherr all over Xavier. The worst part about this is that Logan can’t tell if Xavier would be mortified to know, or just proud.

“Erik, really,” Xavier protests, only tokenly at best as he allows himself to be gently tugged closer to the trunk of the tree. Logan is starting to feel well and truly trapped now, because while they may not notice him now, they certainly will the second he tries to move. Lehnsherr probably wouldn’t hesitate to eviscerate him on the spot, if only for being a direct witness to his softer side. Have to destroy evidence, and all that. Logan gets it. “As lovely as this trip down memory lane is, I really—”

“We don’t see each other nearly enough,” Lehnsherr interrupts him, short and clipped and directly to the point but open with honestly. He sinks down at the base of the tree, still keeping their fingers linked and tilting his head back to look up at Xavier, who stands over him. “Just—give me today. At least.”

“Oh,” Xavier says, and Logan has to look away from the expression on his face, because it seems too private, more so than this already private moment. When he dares to glance back down again, Xavier has settled himself down beside Lehnsherr against the tree, tucking himself underneath Lehnsherr’s arm. “Too bad we didn’t bring a Kido book.”

Logan sort of wants to gag a little when Lehnsherr produces one from within the depths of his uniform. Here are two Captains of the Gotei 13 playing hooky together for the day, and instead of doing something normal like passing a bottle of sake back and forth, or heaven forbid, get up to whatever kind of kinky shit they’re into, they’re going to sit together under a tree and read poetry. He supposes it’s to be expected. This is Xavier and Lehnsherr, after all. They always stood apart from the rest. Together. Xavier and Lehnsherr. Charles and Erik.

“Read to me,” Erik drawls, with the air of repetition, like the words have been spoken sometime before, long ago in simpler times, and judging by Charles’ slow, curling smile, it’s not far off the mark.

Logan closes his eyes as Charles’ soft, lilting voice fills the small clearing with the flow of poetry, the words rising up and down on the soft breeze that blows through the trees, rustling the leaves and bringing the scent of change.

 

*

 

Exactly one week later, there is a storm.

 


	11. Vampire AU: Erik's new neighbor is a vampire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Cherik vampire au where Charles is the sweet vamp and Erik is a grumpy human**

 

Erik takes one look at Charles Xavier, welcome to the building and how do you do, and slams the door shut in his face.

He knows a vampire when he sees one. They stand out to him, in his sixth sense of metal, because at any given point of time a vampire is bound to be far fuller of iron-rich blood than the normal, average human or mutant, so they’re sort of like torches to Erik amongst the general population. He’s been able to sense this one all day, pinging on his radar while he hauled up furniture and boxes of all his worldly possessions (five boxes in total, he’s never been very sentimental) so he’s actually been waiting for this all day.

And true to form, the vampire had knocked on his door as soon as the last sliver of the setting sun sank down below the horizon.

“It’s the jello, isn’t it?” the vampire calls amiably through the door as Erik walks away. “It’s too much. Well, I’ll let you get settled and try again later!”

It’s not that Erik has a huge problem with vampires. He’s dealt with them before on numerous occasions. Some of them are assholes, sure, but then again so are some mutants. Most humans, too (Erik is biased in this regard, but go ahead, ask him if he cares). He’s not even bothered by the whole bloodsucking thing either. There are laws about that to keep it controlled, and while rogue vampires with no regard for the laws do occur, so do regular serial killers. But it’s not like vampires are always lurking about in dark alleys, waiting for the next unsuspecting victim to walk by. Most of the ones Erik knows would find that very demeaning.

The problem Erik _does_ have with vampires is that they can never resist him.

So while he had been expecting to be approached sooner or later by his new neighbor, he hadn’t exactly been expecting a large plate of red jello cut in the shape of a bat. If the vampire thinks he’s being funny, he’s got a long wait for Erik to laugh.

It doesn’t matter anyway. Erik has no intentions of returning any sort of welcoming vibe. The sooner the vampire learns that he’s not interested in bloodsharing—and there’s no doubt that the vampire is, because they _all_ are; hello, how are you, mind if I take a few sips—the sooner Erik won’t have to speak to him ever again. As per his plan. He fully intends to speak to no one in this building, regardless of mutant, vampire, or human status.

Erik is very, very meticulous about sticking to his plans.

This is tossed very bodily out the window when Erik’s AC unit stops working the next afternoon. He calls the maintenance number listed on the only magnet he has on the fridge, and is gruffly informed that someone won’t be up to fix it until tomorrow morning.

“Deal with it, bub,” the voice at the other end of the line says, unimpressed when Erik snaps at him, and then hangs up with a sharp click.

Erik deals with it by throwing the phone down against the receiver extremely hard, making the plastic crack a little. Then, because his new and sparsely-filled apartment is already hotter than a furnace, he wanders out into the hallway where it is gloriously cooler.

“Hi,” chirps his blue-eyed, floppy-haired, and blood-sucking neighbor upon seeing him, and Erik comes to a suspicious stop. “Is your AC broken too?”

A quick check of the vents with his powers and Erik realizes that he should’ve known. Their separate apartments share the same unit. Of course. “Yes,” he says tersely, because even he knows what awkward silences are.

“Couldn’t have had the decency to happen in the winter, could it?” Charles says ruefully. He’s situated himself in the corridor, back leaned against the wall halfway between his door and Erik’s. A precarious stack of books rests beside him. “But I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch your name last night.”

“Erik,” Erik says after another short pause.

“Erik,” Charles repeats, curling his name around in his mouth with his crisp accent. It’s not altogether unpleasant. Quite the opposite.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Erik asks without really meaning to, but before he can stop to examine that last thought too closely. His brain-to-mouth filter is a little slow today. That heat must have really been getting to him.

Charles smiles, and doesn’t appear offended. “Technically, I suppose. But I’m not a full vampire. Or rather, I am a full vampire, but I’m also a mutant.”

“A mutant vampire,” Erik says flatly.

“Brilliant, isn’t it,” Charles says with a winning smile, and moves on as if he expects Erik already agrees, “but anyway, it affords me a little leniency with things on the vampire side. Still not a huge fan of the sun, though.”

Erik stares at him. Mostly because he’s still trying to process what a mutant vampire means, and also because Charles’ skin is very pale, and makes his blue eyes and red lips stand out more, which is sort of a weird thing to notice because Erik is suddenly not looking at him anymore. At all. “What can you do?”

“What can _you_ do?” Charles asks pointedly, lifting his eyebrows.

Erik considers him. Fair is fair, he supposes. He’s already asked his share of nosy questions. He feels around for the closest bit of metal and lands on Charles’ keys. He lifts them with his power effortlessly, tugging them towards himself and catching them in one hand. “Metal.”

“Fascinating,” Charles says, wide-eyed with wonder, and Erik shifts a little uncomfortably, unused to that kind of reaction. “I bet you could pull this whole building down around our ears if you wanted to.”

“Yes, so you’d better keep the noise down at night,” Erik’s mouth says before his brain catches up and what is he doing, joking with his neighbor. That is not what Erik does. Ever.

Charles _beams_ at him. “I shall do my utmost to ensure your sleep is unmolested,” he says solemnly, as if Erik has tasked him with a gravely important mission.

“Good,” Erik says stiltedly, and then recovers a little with, “your turn now.”

 _I can do this_. Charles’ smile turns hopeful as his words echo a little in Erik’s head. _Telepathy. I don’t read people’s minds, though, not without permission. I swear._

That hadn’t been Erik’s first thought at all. His first thought had been to wonder how useful telepathy might be in stealing bids from rival engineering firms. “Oh,” he says, a little nonplussed, “I believe you.”

“Really?” Charles asks him.

Erik shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” Charles’ demeanor alone is proof enough. Erik’s not sure he’s ever met another creature quite like him, mutant vampire notwithstanding. Even so, he braces himself for the inevitable. They’re officially Friendly now. It’ll only be so long before Charles asks.

“I still have that plate of jello from last night,” Charles offers instead, taking Erik by surprise once again. “Want to share?”

“Sure,” Erik is startled into agreeing, and Charles hops up in a flash with a cheery grin.

“Be right back!”

Erik watches the door to Charles’ apartment close, only slightly confused. Maybe Charles doesn’t drink blood. Then again, he still feels like a vampire to Erik’s metal-sense, and why bother calling yourself a vampire if you don’t really drink blood? Figuring that he might as well ride this one out since he has nothing better to do, Erik lowers himself down to the carpeted floor next to Charles’ stack of books.

“What is the jello about, anyway?” Erik asks him upon his triumphant return, carrying the plate as if it contains the holy grail and not a wobbling red chunk of questionable substance.

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do when you greet new neighbors?” Charles asks, brow furrowed as he sinks down carefully.

“I thought they only did that in movies,” Erik admits.

“Oh.” Charles laughs, a little embarrassed. “I suppose I was just excited about finally having a next door neighbor. Usually no one really likes having a vampire creeping about next door, so your unit’s been empty for years.”

Erik glances down the hall. His and Charles’ apartments are on one side of the elevators, while all the rest of the doors spread down along the other side with pointed distance. “And the bat shape?”

Charles grins, ripping off a small piece from one wing. “What better way to announce that hello, I’m your vampire neighbor but here I am being very upfront about it and you have nothing to fear? Not that we can _actually_ turn into bats, but I thought it might be funny.”

It occurs to Erik that Charles is lonely. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says flatly. He couldn’t imagine a less intimidating person if he tried. Then again, Charles probably has his scary side that comes out when provoked. All vampires do. But it’s clear as daylight that Charles is harmless, if only in the broadest of senses.

And possibly possess some kind of sorcery, since Erik is still willingly talking to him like this.

“Thank you, my friend,” Charles says warmly, and then takes a bite of jello.

Erik promptly has to pound him on the back for the next five minutes while he coughs, gasping out a stream of apologies even while he hacks, vampire tastes apparently not accustomed to processed gelatin.

“It just looked so good,” he says, a little mournfully, once he’s breathing normally again. “I just wanted to see if I could try it.”

Erik is unsure if they’re looking at the same jello or not. He’s too busy feeling resigned. “I suppose this is the part where you ask.”

“Ask what?” Charles wonders. He does a fair job at sounding completely mystified, but Erik isn’t fooled.

“To drink my blood,” Erik says flatly like it’s obvious, “but not before you tell me how delicious I smell, like nothing you’ve ever scented before, as if that will flatter me into letting you take a drink.” It’s his mutation that causes it, he thinks, and enriches the iron in his blood to make him smell nothing short of gourmet to thirsty vampires.

Charles looks taken aback. “Oh, my friend, there’s really no need for that, I keep blood bags in the fridge and—”

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t the first thing you noticed about me,” Erik bulldozes on, “because that’s all I ever have to hear about from your kind—”

“For your information, the first thing I noticed about you was your _mind_ ,” Charles interrupts him, in the tone of voice that suggests were they standing up, his hands would be on his hips. “It feels very bright and utterly fascinating, and very well, I won’t lie to you, you _do_ smell rather nice, but I would never try to befriend someone based on whether or not I could get them to let me drink from them.”

The worst part is that he sounds disappointed in Erik, and beneath that is a tinge of resignation, as if Charles is tired of getting the ‘you’re only talking to me because you want a drink’ line.

Oh.

“I’m sorry,” Erik says stiffly after a few moments of awkward silence, the words strange and foreign in his mouth.

Charles sighs, but summons up a small smile. “It’s quite alright. I’m used to the generalizations people make about _my kind_.”

Erik doesn’t like the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. He considers apologizing again, but he’s already done it once and saying it again will feel too insincere. Instead he reaches down to the plate of jello and breaks off a small, wiggling piece, holding it up where Charles can see as a peace offering. “Friends?”

Charles’ smile grows, so large that his cheeks must hurt. “Friends.”

Erik eats the jello, letting it slide down his throat, and takes a moment to wonder at what exactly he’s doing, making a friend.

“Tell me how it tastes,” Charles asks, still intent on finding out, and Erik is startled to find that he almost wants to laugh.

“Not bad,” he admits, truthful, and find that maybe he doesn’t entirely mind. It can’t be all that bad.

Neither is Charles, for that matter, he comes to find over the next few weeks, as they slowly drift in tighter and tighter circles around each other.

Not bad at all.

 


	12. Jurassic Park AU: Charles and Erik as velociraptors in the kitchen scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Pan pan. I'm still waiting for Charles and Erik as velociraptors. patiently. In my little corner.**
> 
>  
> 
> Co-written with **MonstrousRegiment**!

 

They smell soft and sweet like meat that hasn’t rotted, fresh with clean blood and ripe with fear. He can smell them on the other side of the swinging thing with the opening that his breath fogs. He inhales their scent and huffs his breath against it, looking in. They think they’re hidden, that they have masked their scents, but he can smell them still.

He turns his head and calls for the other one. The soft one, the starved one. He has carried this one through the famine. The little one is weak, small—should be dead. He should have eaten him. Meat is meat is meat and he is not picky, but the little one—the soft one, the one with eyes like the sky, he doesn’t smell of food.

The creatures on the other side of the swinging thing smell young and freshly hatched, but he doesn’t care. The little one needs food, if he will live. He wants the little one to live. The swinging thing is heavy and hard and it hurts when he forces it open with his head, but it opens, and he slides through. The little one follows him, breath huffing with the scent of meat and fear.

He exhales a sound of joy and jumps on on the tall part, things rattling noisily to the ground. He leans down and roars in joy. His breath fogs the surface, smooth and shining beneath his claws. He shifts his feet, tail swinging for balance. His claws scratch the smooth surface with high, annoying sounds.

Tonight they will eat.

The little one sniffs the air with interest, tilting his head at the scent. He’s never had a youngling, the hunter can tell; the small one ate little, before he met the hunter. He’s not built for hunting, the little one; too slow, too soft-bellied. The hunter, though; the hunter knows what it was born for. Hunting for two is no different than hunting for one; the small one east little, in any case, and always eats second.

The hunter leans down and scents the air. He knows where the mammals hide; one of them hides in a small little alcove nearby. The other one—the male, he thinks, it smells vaguely male, perhaps, he can’t be sure, with mammals—hides beneath the high place the hunter is standing upon. The little male thinks he’s out of reach, the hunter thinks, but very little is out of reach for him, and what is, the little one can always get for them. He is not useless, the little one, although—by all rights the hunter ought to have let him die, when the things that stung came down.

The little one makes an inquisitive noise, lips rising up from his teeth, tongue flicking out briefly in hunger. The hunter drops from the surface and charges the little alcove, ready for an easy meal—and crashes against something hard that screeches as it gives way beneath his weight. Briefly stunned and disoriented by the impact, the hunter rears back and stares at the bent surface. He can still see the female hatchling, but how—

The little one makes a soft noise with his teeth, closing them down harsh, right at the hunter’s back. The hunter whirls around and spots the female mammal, in her little alcove in front of the surface he’s just crashed into. The little one found her! The hunter screeches and lunges. He can nearly taste her on his tongue, sweet fresh blood and soft raw meat and the satisfying crunch of bone—

The little one smashes onto his side and sends him careening into one of the platforms. The edge of the surface cuts painfully into the hunter’s shoulder, and he turns and snaps his jaw inches from the little one’s eye, annoyed at the clumsiness. While they are distracted, the mammals move, and the hunter is too slow to react.

By the time he follows, they have closed and locked the swinging thing, and no matter how he crashes into it, it will not give. The little one makes a soft sound, something that sounds and tastes like an apology. The hunter bares his teeth at him, hostile and angry with hunger. The softy one’s head dips down and he steps back, away from biting range.

He’s done it on purpose, the hunter can tell. If the small one had not collided with him, he would have gotten the female, at least, and they could hunt the little male hatchling at their leisure, sated, fed.

The swinging door will not give way, no matter how he pushes. He roars ins frustration and snaps his jaws again when the small one makes a tentative noise. But this time the soft one doesn’t back off; head low, showing deference, he sidles over to the space between the hunter and the swinging thing, eyes downturned, and presses a clawed foreleg on a protruding bit of it.

The swinging thing—swings. The hunter stares at it, then promptly hurries through when it threatens to return and jam again. The small one follows, less hurried, like he doesn’t fear the swinging thing will smack him full in the snout.

The hunter leans down and sniffs deeply, scenting. He catches the small male mammal’s fear thick and rich in the air and swings in that direction. The little one makes a plaintive noise, but the hunter ignores him. He’ll be glad enough, when he has fresh meat in his mouth, whatever its origin.

He finds the female just as she goes into the ceiling, long legs still in the air. The hunter charges and crashes against what she’s using to prop herself up. She flails and shrieks and nearly falls, the hunter _almost has her_ —

The little one collides into his side and sends him tumbling on the floor with a dull thud. Furious now, the hunter snaps his jaws and scores a stinging bite to the side of the little one’s long throat that has him flinching and whining.

But it’s too late. The mammals are gone, into the ceiling, where the hunter can’t follow them no matter how high he leaps. Enraged, he turns on the small one again, but he only whines and lowers his head, canting his head to the side to show his throat, ready for the hunter’s snapping jaws. His eyes are soft and wide and wet with something odd that the hunter can’t understand, something gentle and weak.

Hatchlings.

Of course the little one wouldn’t want to eat hatchlings. He is weak and small and hopeless and the hunter ought to leave him to his own luck, which will inevitably soon run out, and concern himself with his own survival. Some of the big ones will make a quick job of the little one, the hunter knows; a creature this soft and small will not live long in these lands, and the big ones roam free and angry. They are all hungry, not just for the meat, but for the _hunt_.

If the hunter leaves the little one now, the little one will not live out the day. The hunter can feel it, can scent it in the air—the big one, the angry one, is coming. The one that kills the mammals and doesn’t eat them. The big one will kill the little one and sicard him like rotted, spoilt meat. He’s not interested in their harsh flesh, the big one, but he is interested in killing, and if the hunter leaves alone, then…

And he is not the only one coming, either. The hunter knows the others are headed this way, their brothers and sisters, their kin. Hunters like him. They won’t eat the little one, either, but perhaps now, that the stinging things are down and it’s every creature for their own and food is scarce, now they will kill him, rather than tolerate his existence as a moderately annoying yet amusing fluke of nature.

Leave? Let the little one die in a pool of his own blood on this alien, hard floor where his claws skid uncomfortably? He lashes out his tail in annoyance.

Making a low, irritated noise, he leads the way out into the sun, with the little one close at his tail. Let the others deal with the mammals and the big one.

The less of them, the more food the hunter has for himself and the little one.

 _Are you quite finished thinking insulting and demeaning things about me?_ Charles asks dryly as they run, loping along beside him.

 _Quiet, Charles_ , Erik orders, quickening his pace so that he’s in the lead again. _I’m in the zone. I’m trying to find us food, since you so conveniently let the mammals escape._

Charles huffs a sigh, fond and indulgent. Erik would never tolerate either of these sentiments from any other living creature except Charles, so he should count himself lucky. _I refuse to allow you to become a hatchling killer._

 _You’re better off a herbivore,_ Erik says darkly, tail lashing.

 _Whatever you say, darling,_ Charles replies calmly, not nearly as insulted as he should be. When Erik comes to a stop to scent the air again, Charles nuzzles up beside him, warm and sweet. _I’m better off with you, my big and brave hunter._

Erik glances around, and no one’s here to see so he nuzzles Charles back, nipping at him gently just to hear Charles’ laughter ring out softly in his head.

 


	13. Erik accidentally hits a baseball through a window but makes a new friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: If it's not too much trouble, I'd love an au where Erik is playing baseball with a few friends around the neighborhood when he hits a home run and the ball crashes through someone’s window, so he goes to apologize and meets a paralyzed or terminally ill Charles confined to his bed. And cue the friendship that turns into more than just a friendship while Erik helps Charles with things he can’t do because of said disability/sickness**

 

It’s Erik’s fault. The bat Azazel dug out of his garage is metal, so when Erik takes a swing at the ball Seb has pitched to him, he adds a little strength to it with his powers, connecting to the baseball with a loud  _ THWACK _ and sending it whistling through the air, far faster than he anticipated. It soars all the way across the street, going right over Janos’ head, and crashes through one of the windows of the big, old house that looms there with a shatter of glass.

Because his friends are all jerks, they scatter instantly, taking off running to hide behind Azazel’s house, Seb yelling over his shoulder, “You’d better get my ball back, Lehnsherr!” It would sound vaguely threatening, as a lot of things Seb says tend to do, if it weren’t for the fact that he’s currently hightailing it like a coward.

Either way, Erik is still left standing alone in the front yard, staring at the broken window across the street. The ball had arced down at the end of its flight, so the window is mercifully on the first floor out of an intimidating three, so technically Erik might be able to sneak in, grab the ball, and get out. For how fancy the house looks, he can’t hear any sort of alarm going off, and so far there isn’t anyone shouting, either, so maybe nobody’s home.

Sneaking in is probably his best bet, he decides, squaring his shoulders and marching off across the street. He can always leave an apologetic, anonymous note on the doorstep with no one the wiser that it’s his fault. Like his mother.

Erik shudders.  _ Especially _ his mother.

He makes his way across the neatly manicured green lawn, and squeezes through the low hedge that borders the house. Standing on the tips of his toes, he’s just tall enough to peer up through the window, though he still can’t see much. It takes him a couple minutes to figure out the window frame and lock with his power, his finer control still shaky and unpracticed, but when he finally flicks the lock open and pushes the window up with a soft tinkling sound of loose glass, he’s extremely proud of himself.

Erik pulls himself up up onto the ledge, mindful of the broken bits, and then freezes.

A small boy about his age stares back at him curiously from across the room from where he’s tucked into a large, comfy-looking bed. For a few long, shocked moments they merely stare at each other, but then Erik’s mind flicks back on and he realizes that he’s been caught and needs to get out of here before the other boy screams and alerts his parents.

Before he can even turn to jump back down off the ledge, the other boy sits up quickly, reaching towards him. “No, no, don’t go! I promise I won’t scream. Please stay.”

Erik hesitates. The boy is looking at him imploringly, wide-eyed and hopeful. “But I broke your window.”

“It’s easily fixable,” he answers with a shrug, “but you also opened it without touching it, how’d you do that?” Erik immediately bristles, ready to run again, but then the boy continues, eyes shining, “Are you a mutant too?”

Erik relaxes, curiosity of his own forming. “I can move metal with my mind,” he answers, a note of pride entering his voice, “what can you do?”

The boy grins, and lifts one hand to press two fingers against his temple.  _ I can do  _ **_this_ ** _ with my mind. Hello Erik, I’m Charles. _

Erik jumps so badly at the sudden voice in his head that he pitches forward and falls off the windowsill, fortunately landing on the soft carpet. A moment later he feels a sharp sting in his hand, and looks down to find that he’s cut his palm on a piece of broken glass.

Charles is mortified. “Oh no, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”

“You didn’t scare me!” Erik protests indignantly, sitting up straight. “I was just...surprised.”

Charles doesn’t appear to actually hear him, peering at him worriedly. “You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing,” Erik says with false bravado, because it really does sting but he’s determined to not be a wimp under any circumstances. “Was that really you? In my head?”

Charles flushes, his cheeks going rosey. “Yes. I’m a telepath. I can read minds.”

“Oh,” Erik says, blinking, because while most of his friends are mutants and all have cool powers, he’s never heard of telepathy before. “Cool.”

Charles beams at him. “Really?”

“All mutant powers are cool,” Erik says, because he thought this was a known fact. “Can you also control people’s minds? Make them do whatever you want?”

“I don’t know,” Charles says thoughtfully, tilting his head. “Maybe with enough practice? That seems mean, though, to make someone do something they don’t want to.”

Erik shrugs. “You could make your mom give you ice cream for dinner all the time.”

Charles giggles, but shakes his head a little. “My mother isn’t the one who brings me dinner anyway. Oh, Erik, you’re really bleeding, can you come here so I can look at it?”

Erik looks down at his hand. He’s in danger of staining the carpet so he stands up quickly and crosses over to Charles’ bed, allowing Charles to examine his hand. His hands are cold, which feels good on Erik’s irritated skin that’s warm from both the injury and the sun outside, but it also seems strange, since Charles is all tucked in bed on a summer afternoon like today.

“Ow!” Erik hisses, yanking his hand back when Charles presses against the cut. A few of the trinkets that decorate Charles’ numerous bookshelves rattle as Erik’s power flares up in agitation.

“My bathroom’s over there,” Charles says, unafraid, “you can wash your hands and then if you bring me the medical kit under the sink I’ll help you wrap it up so it stops bleeding.”

“Okay,” Erik says, a little abashed, because he’s already broken Charles’ window and didn’t mean to mess up his things too. He makes a quick exit to the bathroom, running his hands under the water and wincing a little when the soap only makes the stinging worse. He sort of has to bend over to use the sink because the counter is shorter than normal, and there are a lot of handlebars nailed into the walls that don’t seem to be for hanging towels on. The medkit is right where Charles said it would be, so he grabs it and heads back out to Charles who still waits patiently in bed.

“Sit.” Charles pats the comforter invitingly and Erik hops up, bouncing a little. “Don’t worry about the window,” he says as he pops open the kit and finds wrapping gauze, “it’s really no problem. If I’m honest, I was kind of excited that you broke it because I hoped you’d come looking for your ball.”

“Why?” Erik wonders. He does his best to hold perfectly still as Charles begins to wrap his hand, the gauze soft but firm. He can just tell his mom that he slipped while running or something.

“Don’t lie to your mom,” Charles says reproachfully, glancing up at him briefly, and then blushes again. “Sorry. I try not to read people’s minds without permission, but you’re just here, and…” He trails off, still holding Erik’s hand between his own. “I can hear you guys playing outside all the time,” he explains, tapping his temple, “and you always sound like you’re having a lot of fun.”

“You can come play with us,” Erik offers. Charles is nice, and a mutant too, so Seb and the others won’t mind a new addition to the group. And if they do, Erik will just make them.

Charles smiles wistfully. “That’s very kind of you to offer, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Why not?” Erik demands. “Even if we don’t go to the same school—” because he doesn’t recognize Charles from his year, at least, or from any of the years below him that he can recall, “—we can still be friends.”

“I would very much like to be friends,” Charles says warmly, giving Erik’s fingers a small squeeze, “but you see, it’s my legs.” He gestures towards them, two lumps beneath the covers. “They don’t work. I can’t run around with you, no matter how much I’d like to.”

“Oh,” Erik says, taking in that new piece of information about Charles. He’s quiet for a moment, thinking, while Charles busies himself with wrapping up the remaining gauze and packing it away into the kit. “Then why don’t you just read my mind?”

Charles looks back up at him, confused. “What?”

“You—” Erik struggles to find the right words, unused to what he’s trying to offer. “You can read minds, right? Why don’t you just read mine while we run around outside? Then it’s like you’re there.”

Charles brightens. “Like letting me ride along in your mind?”

“Yeah,” Erik agrees, grateful that Charles is catching on. “Except don’t control me. Just watch.”

“I would never,” Charles assures him hastily. He bites his lower lip, suddenly shy. “Could I talk to you, though? I mean, when it’s not distracting?”

Erik frowns. “You can talk to me whenever you want.”

Charles’ answering smile could outshine the sun, and the accompanying burst of happiness he projects leaves Erik feeling a little dazed. “Thank you so much, Erik. I’m—I really—thank you.”

Erik shrugs, his cheeks suddenly hot. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is one to me,” Charles says quietly, his smile gone soft around the edges, so Erik takes one of his hands and presses it between both of his own, willing some warmth back into Charles’ fingers.

“You can help me when we play manhunt,” he says stoutly, “and we’ll be so good at it, just wait. We can rule the neighborhood together.”

Charles laughs, leaking out affection like warm waves. “Benevolently, I hope.”

Erik wrinkles his nose. “We’ll see.”

“Well, I should probably let you get back, then,” Charles says, hesitantly retracting his hand, “I don’t want your friends to worry. I think your baseball rolled somewhere beneath the bed.”

“Nah,” Erik says, “who cares about them anyway.” He kicks off his shoes and crawls further up onto the bed and flops down on his back next to Charles above the covers, folding his arms behind his head. “Tell me more about telepathy.”

Charles’ face lights up again and he’s lovely, Erik thinks somewhere deep down without really realizing it yet, when he glows.

 


	14. The Bachelor AU: Charles is The Bachelor, and Erik is only the cameraman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Charles Xavier, millionaire playboy, center of a Bachelor-type reality show where women compete for his affection (and money). Erik Lehnsherr, that invisible creature whose presence in a reality show is crucial, but whose existence can never be acknowledged: the cameraman.**

 

The camera pans up slowly. Carefully. Intimate detail is paid to pressed black slacks, fitting neatly over long legs and strong, solid thighs that taper up to a trim, fit waist. The dinner jacket is tailored flawlessly, silky material gleaming in the set lights and accenting broad but contained shoulders, highlighting a toned, compact body that would fit perfectly against—

“Lehnsherr,” the executive producer Sebastian Shaw hisses from somewhere behind him, “the viewers would like to see the girls sometime today.”

Erik holds in a sigh, even though none of the mics are near enough to pick up on any noise he might make. Still, he finishes his shot, panning all the way up to Charles Xavier’s face, which needs no help at all from the makeup department to be absolutely stunning, with bright blue eyes like sunlight dancing across water, and sinfully red lips, redder even than the tray of four perfect roses that he holds with both hands. Erik wishes they hadn’t dusted over the galaxy-splay of freckles on his cheeks and nose.

Charles glances over at him out of the corner of his eye, a brief flicker that the viewers at home probably won’t even notice, and winks at him.

Pretending not to notice either, Erik shifts the camera smoothly over to the line of four women who stand waiting for Charles’ decision, and wills himself not to care.

But he _does_ care. Erik has spent eight seasons on this show—eight years of his life—filming vapid, empty-headed, millionaire bachelors stringing along vapid, empty-headed, desperate women in order to choose a wife, and never before has he ever been this invested. Before now he could never have cared less about the petty dramas that occur between the contestants as they vie for the bachelor’s favor, could never have cared less about which one of them won. But this season...everything changed.

Charles Xavier is unlike any of the previous bachelors the show has ever had. Certainly he’s a millionaire, and has a flirting streak a mile wide, but he is also a genuinely _good person_ , who cares about not only each of the women’s feelings, but also about those of the rest of the crew. He’s friendly and approachable, not demanding when it comes to anything; be it his trailer, the long hours of the shooting schedule verses how short the breaks are, or how close, sometimes, the cameras invade his personal space. It makes Erik wonder why Charles is on this show to begin with, where everything else is fake, fake, fake.

He’d almost asked him once, when Charles had stumbled upon Erik taking a smoke break behind one of the trailers, back when they’d only been shooting the second or third episode of the season. Instead of passing by, Charles had offered to fetch him a water or coffee, and after Erik’s raised-eyebrows no, had stayed to chat anyway. They’d talked about a number of things that mostly revolved around Erik—where he’d grown up, where he’d gone to school, what had made him decide to become a cameraman, how he’d gotten into the industry.

It’d been a strange experience for Erik. He always plays his cards close to the chest and doesn’t make a habit of going around offering his personal story to people, let alone millionaire bachelors who are on a show to pick a wife. But something about Charles, and his easygoing mannerisms and how obvious it is he’s not asking for appearance’s sake but instead truly wants to know, interested in the answers and listening to commit them to memory, had Erik responding.

They’d been called back to the main set before Erik got a chance to ask Charles the same kind of personal questions in return. He’d been just as surprised to discover that he too truly wanted to know how Charles would answer.

He should’ve known then that he was in too deep.

Over the course of the rest of the season up until now, the second-to-last episode, Erik had only fallen harder. Charles has been just as genuine on camera as he was off, giving each of the women his full and absolute undivided attention on all of the dates he had to take them on as part of the show, both one-on-one and even when he had to take them out in groups. He always had a quick and easy joke ready to smooth over any awkward moments, and Erik has seen the tips Charles has been leaving for the wait staff at any of the restaurants or spas the cast has gone to—the show takes care of the main bills, of course, but Charles has made sure to leave ample tips for everyone he’s ever come into contact with.

He can certainly afford it, but that’s not the point—the fact that he has the presence of mind enough to do so, when all of the previous bachelors Erik has filmed before never spared a thought for that kind of thing, is baffling as Charles’ unknown reason for being on the show in the first place.

Erik’s final downfall had been the night that random meetings and short snatches of conversation during breaks had turned into a chess game with Charles in his trailer after they’d wrapped for the day. Charles had caught him just as he’d finished packing away his camera equipment for the day, offering up a bottle of expensive scotch and a half-formed excuse of wanting to hide for a bit until all of the contestants had dispersed for the night, citing that he’d already spent a long day on camera with them and wasn’t in the mood for off-camera seductions too. Erik had agreed before he’d even realized what he was saying, and they’d wound up on the floor in Charles’ trailer with a chessboard and two crystal tumblers, staying till the small hours of the night.

Erik hadn’t asked him then either, too distracted by how Charles’ eyes were still lovely even when they were slightly hazy with the influence of alcohol, the way his red lips wrapped around the rim of his glass for each sip of scotch, the soft flush of his cheeks. The way his entire face lights up when they touched on a subject he’s passionate about, like the science and ethics behind the reason of his fortune, Xavier Pharmaceuticals. The way he talks with his hands, gesturing wildly in the air to make his point, and almost completely overbalancing on one occasion, his knee jerking into the board and sending their game pieces flying. It’d been a good excuse to start one more match.

Despite being fairly proficient in chess, Erik had lost a lot more games that he probably would have if he’d been paying more attention to the board instead.

For his own sake and Charles’ sake, too—the man is here to select a wife out of the group of contestants, after all—Erik has tried to cut off his emotions, uproot them at every turn. Having largely and spectacularly failed at this, because how could he, when Charles is so bright and friendly and beautiful, Erik resorted to different tactics and did his best to bury his feelings as deep as he possibly could.

His camera is the only give, because it somehow spends more time studying Charles than it does the girls and their dramas, something Erik has gotten snapped at by Shaw on more than one occasion. Erik can’t help it. The camera loves Charles. He’s highly photogenic, perfectly proportioned despite his smaller frame, and Erik is very, very screwed.

There’s only one way this show ends. In the final episode Charles will present the final rose to the woman of his choice and she will become his fiance, then his bride, then his wife.

Erik will pick up his last paycheck for the season and be very much alone.

There are only two roses on Charles’ tray, but four girls left. Erik films silently while one at a time, Charles hands the roses to his two finalists, records the tearful goodbyes of the two girls who will be going home. The director calls cut and everyone breaks, but Erik just gets to work on moving his equipment over to the second set, where the two losers will have a chance to make their final remarks. Then he’ll be done, and there will only be one more episode in the season left.

One more day of filming. One more day of filming Charles. One more day of Charles.

“Erik!” Charles flags him down, half-skipping over across one of the messy tangles of wires and nearly running into Quested, the sound guy. He slides into place at Erik’s side, reaching down to lift one of the heavy camera cases out of Erik’s grip and carrying it himself as they walk together over to the second set. “Chess again tonight? They’ve got me set up in a _really_ swanky hotel room, you should see the place, and I’ve got a few bottles of stuff so you can pick your poison—”

“Sorry,” Erik cuts him off, not quite looking at him even as he reaches back to pull the case out of Charles’ hand and take it back from him, “I can’t tonight. And you should rest. Big day tomorrow.” He swallows, and pretends its because of the strain of all the weight he’s lugging. “Engagement day, and all.”

“Oh.” Erik’s still not looking at him, but he can tell by Charles’ voice alone that he resembles something close to a kicked puppy. “Oh. Of course. You’re right. Big day.”

Erik grunts, putting the cases down by the camera station and popping them open to get to work setting them up so that he’ll be ready when the director wants to proceed with the final clips. He hears Charles come to a stop nearby, hovering on the periphery of Erik’s vision.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” Charles says when it becomes clear enough that Erik isn’t going to say anything. “Um. Have a good night.” He turns and walks away, and a few moments later Erik hears one of the two remaining contestants calling Charles’ name followed by Charles’ warm response.

“You too,” Erik says for no one to overhear, and tells himself that he’ll feel better, once the season has officially wrapped tomorrow. It’ll be easier to forget about Charles once he no longer has to film him every single day, once he’s no longer being paid to sit and stare at him for hours, afforded time to memorize every last detail about him over and over again. He tells himself this, and tries not to feel like his heart is breaking.

It doesn’t really work.

 

*

 

The shoot for the final episode is long. They’re filming on-location at a private resort in Maui, and Erik isn’t certain that the director actually needs this many different takes of the same thing—this is trashy TV, not an oscar-contending movie. The two final contestants are frazzled, nearly unbearable with their nerves and their almost feverish desire to win, and worst of all, Charles is distant.

He puts on an excellent act for the camera. No one either at home watching or any of the crewmembers on set would be able to tell the difference. He’s just as warm, just as kind, just as unfailingly polite as he’s been on every other episode of the show. But Erik knows better. He’s been studying Charles constantly for weeks now, both professionally and otherwise, and he knows something is wrong.

Charles won’t look at him.

There are no more quick glances, no more joking roll of the eyes in Erik’s direction when Charles isn’t directly on camera, no more quick and fleeting side grins just for him. There’s a tightness around Charles’ eyes that makeup couldn’t quite conceal, and he presses his lips thin and flat a lot instead of wearing his usual default smile. He doesn’t approach Erik during any of the breaks, not even the hour-long lunch one—he disappears entirely during that one, and is almost late to the set when the director is ready to pick back up again, stumbling up from the direction of the beach and giving out sincere but faintly, faintly strained apologies.

Erik stays quiet and does his job, pretending that his heart doesn’t already ache.

Somehow they finally make it to the final scene, one perfectly-shaped rose resting on the silver tray while the two hopeful contestants stand side-by-side in beautiful cocktail dresses, breathless and vibrating with anticipation. The weather couldn’t be more cooperative; not a cloud in the orange and pink sky while the sun sinks down below a calm Pacific Ocean, a faint breeze only ruffling the ladies’ hair slightly where they stand in a picturesque cabana that overlooks the water, fairy lights twinkling in long strands overhead.

Charles comes back from wardrobe and Erik’s mouth goes dry.

He’s always looked sharp in the rose scene of every episode, but tonight he is ethereal in his tux, practically floating over towards the cabana in Erik’s eyes, bathed in the golden glow of the sunset, but even in this light his eyes are still blue—bluer even than the entire Pacific Ocean that surrounds them. Erik has never wanted someone so much in his entire life.

All he can do is stand by and watch as Charles pledges himself to someone else.

Everyone is moved into positions, a few last minute sound and light checks are done, and then Erik’s camera is rolling. He watches breathlessly as Charles picks up the rose by the stem, thornless so that his fingers are safe from being pricked, and turns slowly to face the two waiting women. Erik doesn’t care which one Charles picks, it matters very little to him in the end—neither of the two girls are him.

“It’s been a pleasure getting to know you both over the past few weeks,” Charles says, that crisp British accent flowing nicely on the breeze, “and I’ve enjoyed both of your company very much. But now I only have one rose left.”

Erik cuts to the two contests, their smiles practically painted on at this point. He doesn’t linger on them long, and cuts back to Charles again.

“When I first imagined this moment, back when the show first began, I thought it would be hard to make the final decision,” Charles says, twirling the rose once between his fingers, “but actually, now that it’s happening, it was easy to decide. I think I sort of knew all along.” He smiles, charming and devastating for it, and Erik barely remembers to cut back to the two contestants again in time. “My final rose goes to—”

The two women are nearly leaning forward now, almost stepping on one another, their smiles holding an air of expectation now, balancing on a precipice of reacting.

“—you,” Charles says, and turns around to walk straight towards the camera, “Erik.”

Erik stares at him as he approaches, and it’s only because the camera is resting on a stand that it hasn’t been dropped out of pure shock. Charles steps around it, moving out of sight to the viewers at home, but he still has his mic on so they can hear every word as he comes to a stop in front of Erik, holding out the rose with a small, rueful smile.

“If you’ll have me,” he says, a small tinge of uncertainty entering his voice, “I would very much like to at least take you out on a date. Possibly several. Possibly, eventually, marry you. If that’s alright. With you. It’s completely your ch—”

Erik cuts him off with a kiss, surging forward to gather Charles up into his arms, rose and everyone else around them completely forgotten as their lips finally meet for the first time. He was right, Charles’ body fits perfectly against his own, and Charles seems utterly delighted to be there, kissing Erik back with enthusiastic fervor. They don’t stop, even when Erik can dimly hear Shaw shouting, “Someone get camera 2 on them and keep it rolling!” or when one of the contestants up in the cabana takes off her sparkling stiletto and hurls it off the cliff with a loud scream of frustration.

None of that matters, not when he has Charles warm and happy in his arms, his heart beating fast and hard but practically singing with joy, and Charles won’t have to ask again, all traces of uncertainty gone, because Erik already knows that his answer is an unwavering, resounding _yes_.

 


	15. Dragon AU: Fire Mage Charles hatches a baby dragon named Erik

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Young Charles finding a dragon egg and keeps it safe till it hatches. Baby dragon Erik imprints on Charles as his mate or mother and Charles has to keep him out of sight at home. Erik then grows enough to realise that he is superior to humans and so he leaves Charles heartbroken. Time skip to the future, Erik returns [in a human form maybe?] and tries to make amends. Charles could be a mutant and thus not like other humans. Sex. ^U^**

 

The hatchling looks like a gecko when it hatches.

“You look like a gecko,” Charles tells it, yanking gently on its scaly little tail to make it scramble sideways and hiss, beating two tiny, leathery wings. “Alright, alright. A fierce gecko.”

The baby dragon turns around and sits back on its haunches to study him, reptilian gaze unblinking and shrewd. Fortunately, though only because he’s a fire mage, Charles feels it coming a second before it happens—the hatchling coughs once, a tiny fireball bouncing out of its jaws across the worn table surface, which Charles scrambles to catch. He hisses a little in pain once it’s cupped between his palms; he might be able to stick his hands in regular fire without feeling anything but warmth, but even for him, dragonfire is _hot_.

“Bad dragonling,” he tells it, with all the authority of a fire-mage-in-training, “no burning down the house. Lady Grey would probably roast us both.”

The dragon tilts its head. A small burst of colors blooms in Charles’ mind, flickering briefly from red-gold-green-blue-purple, and then, with startling alacrity, the baby dragon sends a single word.

_Mama._

“Oh,” Charles says, because even an eight-year-old can experience a certain sense of foreboding, “no.”

 

*

 

“Stop it,” Charles says ten years later for what is probably the twentieth time, “seriously, cut it out.”

 _Why,_ Erik sends from where he looms over Charles on the tree branch overhead. The poor tree is practically bowing under his weight, given that he’s the size of a horse. It’s his tail that’s the problem, hanging down low and brushing rough and heavy against Charles’ shoulder, every now and then flicking forward to turn the page of the text Charles is trying to study.

“I have a practical tomorrow,” Charles says, brushing Erik’s tail away, “and you’re not helping.”

 _You don’t need to study,_ Erik sends dismissively, with his usual level of dragon arrogance that is half amusing, half infuriating at any given point of time. _The fire inside you burns brighter than any of your classmates._

“Yes, my magic is strong,” Charles agrees, because there’s no point in denying it, “but I’d be a rather poor fire mage if I didn’t know how to use it properly.”

Erik huffs out a breath that makes all the leaves on the tree shake, thin trails of smoke curling up through the air from his nostrils. _You humans are always so worried about proper use of fire._

“First of all, not everyone has fire magic,” Charles says with a roll of his eyes, because they’ve been over this a thousand times. Erik refuses to acknowledge any type of magic beyond fire magic, and refuses to call it magic at all. “And secondly, I might have fire in me, as you like to say, but I’m not _made_ of fire like you. We have to learn to control it, it’s not born innately in us like it was for you.”

 _Little soft thing_ , Erik agrees, dragging the tip of his tail across Charles’ cheek. _No scales._

Charles brushes his tail away. “Hey. I can remember when you were the size of a chicken and still called me _Mama_.”

 _You were there when I hatched, what else was I supposed to assume,_ Erik says, his sending tinged with the dragon equivalent of embarrassment. It feels closer to disgruntlement, but Erik is always disgruntled about something. _And anyway, you stopped smelling like ‘Mother’ years ago._

“I smelled like your mother,” Charles repeats, because Erik has never mentioned this before.

 _It was an imprinting thing,_ Erik snaps, and Charles starts to grin.

“Shh, don’t fuss,” he coos, “Mama’s here now—”

 _I’m going to eat you,_ Erik growls, sliding off his tree branch and dropping down onto Charles. Charles yelps even as he laughs, sent tumbling as Erik manhandles him onto his back, splayed out in the grass with a 2000-pound dragon crouched over him. Erik is careful, however, and never lets his full weight rest on Charles at any point; it’s not like he _actually_ wants to crush him.

“I’d probably taste bad,” Charles says, still grinning. He brings up the hand that isn’t pinned down against his side and strokes the shiny scales of Erik’s forearm, admiring how they link together to create a strong, impermeable armor.

 _Probably,_ Erik answers, but snaps his jaws in Charles’ face anyway. His front claws dig into Charles’ shirt on his chest, but not enough to scratch or tear.

Charles laughs, unafraid. “So if I don’t smell like your mother, and I don’t smell like a snack either, what _do_ I smell like?”

Erik leans down further, pushing his snout in closer to Charles’ face and throat, sharp eyes studying him with a deep intelligence that’s more human than beast as he draws in a long, deep breath. Erik’s maturity has developed faster than a human’s, and sometimes Charles feels like he’s talking to a creature that’s one hundred years old, not only ten—that is, when Erik isn’t being an _immature_ little shit and distracting him from his studies.

Most people, Charles thinks as he lies still, letting Erik assess him, would be afraid to have dragon jaws so close. Erik could kill him in a heartbeat, even Charles’ fire magic useless as a defense, but Charles has never flinched away from the dragon that has become his closest friend. Erik is—well, _Erik_. Charles can’t imagine ever being afraid of him.

“Well?” he prompts when the dragon has yet to say a word, still crouched over him and breathing him in. Erik’s like a furnace, and the heat of him would most likely be uncomfortable if Charles didn’t thrive in it, as a fire mage. “I’m guessing that I don’t smell _bad_ , at least, or you’d already be complaining.”

 _You smell like a human_ , Erik sends, as if that’s somehow offensive, but then his tone becomes thoughtfully colored, pale blues and greens. _You smell...I don’t know._

“You don’t know?” Charles repeats, perplexed. “You’re sitting on top of me and sniffing me, how can you not know?”

 _I don’t know,_ Erik growls defensively, making his whole body vibrate over Charles, _I don’t know the scent. I don’t know what it means._ He pauses, cooling off a little. _It’s not bad. It’s...good._

“Well thank the gods for that,” Charles teases, making Erik growl again. “I wouldn’t want to offend your delicate senses. But alright, let me up. I really do need to study.”

 _But I’m bored_ , Erik complains, and then drops his chin down on Charles’ chest, the weight of his head effectively pinning Charles down in place, as if crouching over him wasn’t enough.

“You are the most melodramatic dragon I know.”

 _I’m the_ **_only_ ** _dragon you know_.

“Well,” Charles says after a small pause of silence, reading into the orange-and-yellow colors of Erik’s sending, “you’ve been able to fly for years now. You can always go try to find them.” Every now and then reports come in from the west, detailing dragon sightings. It’d be as good of place as any for Erik to start looking for his kin.

 _And what would you do without me,_ Erik sends with a snort, colors bleeding back to his usual violets and maroons, _you can’t even get out of bed in the morning on your own. I have to stick my head in through your window and breathe fire on you._

“The days where you actually fit are numbered,” Charles warns with a laugh, feeling a deep-seated relief at the same time. He wants Erik to find his kin, and reconnect with other dragons, but at the same time—secretly, selfishly—he’d be terribly sad to see Erik go. But it’s Erik’s choice, not his.

 _Maybe I’ll go one day,_ Erik sends musingly, his tail swishing slowly back and forth across the grass with a soft rasping sound. It’s as if he’s picked up on Charles’ thoughts—there are some days, it feels, as if they actually _are_ that in-tune. _I am content here. For now._

Charles smiles, scratching gently as the scaley snout resting on his chest, just between the two smoking nostrils. _Happy_ would be too human, but he’ll take _content_ any day over anything else. “I’m glad.”

 

*

 

They don’t part amicably.

In retrospect, Charles should have seen it coming.

He’s a fully-fledged fire mage when it happens, shiny new credentials still warm from the press proving that he is a master of his magic. Erik had stayed at his side all the way through the final years of his studies, but with each passing year, Charles had seen a difference in him—he was growing more and more restless.

Reports from the west had continued arriving over the course of the years, trickling in at first before steadily growing in volume: there were dragons on the move, attacking villages and burning fields of crops. People were dying, and survivors were crying out for vengeance.

Charles had always kept Erik a secret, hiding him first in his room when Erik was small enough, and later sneaking him out into the forest when Erik had grown. These days he has to travel almost all the way up the side of the mountain that the mage academy sits beneath in order to see Erik, having urged him to go higher and higher to stay out of sight—he knows what would happen if someone were to catch sight of him here, especially now with the dragon attacks in the west.

 _I should be there,_ Erik growls without bothering to greet Charles as the fire mage clambers into the wide cave that has become Erik’s home, panting from the climb, _I should fly there now instead of continuing to hide here._

“Yes, hello, the graduation ceremony was very nice, thanks for asking,” Charles says, stepping over a pile of deer bones and walking further into the cave. “And what would you do if you found the dragons? Join them? Start attacking people?”

 _They wouldn’t be attacking humans if the humans didn’t deserve it_ , Erik answers from where he’s curled in the very back of the cavern. He’s grown exponentially in the past four years, and is nearly as big as a small cottage. _I should be with my kind._

Charles frowns, coming to a stop in front of him. “You seem awful sure of that, that we _deserve_ it. From the way the reports are worded, it sounds like the dragons are the ones who started it.”

 _Human reports_ , Erik sneers with lime green derision. _As if they can be trusted._

Charles gapes at him. “ _I’m_ a human, in case you’ve forgotten,” he says, unable to come up with anything better out of shocked hurt. Erik has always looked down on humans, in his own I-am-a-dragon-and-therefore-superior-to-everything-else way, but he’s never been cruel about it, exactly, or so pointed and driven. “Do you not trust me?”

 _You’re different_ , Erik sends dismissively, but Charles shakes his head.

“No, I’m not,” he says, folding his arms. “You only say that because you know me. You don’t know the dragons in the west, and yet you’re leaping to take their side when we don’t have enough information to—”

 _Of course I’m on their side_ , Erik snaps, _they’re my kin._

“What if they’re murdering for no reason?” Charles asks, unwavering even when Erik begins to uncoil himself from the back of the cave, slow and menacing.

_Then I should fly there to find out._

“I’m not trying to stop you,” Charles answers, even though a part of him doesn’t want Erik to go, “but I also don’t want you to go with the assumption that the dragons are the good guys here. Keep an open mind.”

 _You just want to believe that the humans don’t deserve what they get_ , Erik growls, stalking forward towards the entrance of the cave.

Charles is forced to step out of his way or risk being flattened. “Erik, listen to yourself! I know you’ve never been a fan of humans, which I’ve never understood, but you can’t just go charging off and partake in what is essentially slaughter—”

Erik twists his long neck around without warning, ducking his head down so that he’s suddenly eye level with Charles. _I refuse to hide any longer, even for you. Watch me._

Charles takes a step back reflexively. “Erik—”

Erik launches himself out of the cave, unfurling his vast, leathery wings with a loud snap, catching an updraft at once and lifting up high into the sky. Charles runs to the mouth of the cave, but by the time he gets there Erik is already disappearing into the clouds.

He’s gone.

 

*

 

Charles goes back to the cave every day for a month, in case Erik has decided to return.

After that, he stops going at all, and five long years pass.

 

*

 

“Charles, it’s me.”

“I don’t believe you,” Charles says, even though the evidence is staring him directly in the face—he still feels like Erik, burning with the same dragonfire that Erik always did in Charles’ magic-sense. Charles stands frozen, back against cold stone, staring down the man approaching him slowly.

Even if Charles weren’t able to sense the dragonfire within, it’s clear that the man isn’t human. He’s human-shaped, with arms and legs and head and face that all look human, but then there are the horns, curling like a dragon’s—like _Erik’s_ —from the top of his head, their bases surrounded by normal human hair. And the wings, too; dark and leathery but looming behind the man’s back where they’re folded. Dragon wings.

“Come on, Charles,” Erik says, coming to a stop a few feet away, “I know you recognize me.”

“You’re a human,” Charles blurts, still making no move to go any closer. Small fires flicker here and there around them, remnants of the battle that had taken place only moments before. Neither side had won—the dragons had winged off suddenly, and while some of the mages back in the small camp just over the ridge are calling it a retreat, Charles knows better. They’ve never stood a chance against the dragons. The fall back, for whatever reason, was calculated.

“A spell,” Erik answers, spreading his arms a little. “Like it?”

“You hate humans,” Charles says with a shaky laugh, “why would you turn yourself into one?”

“It’s only temporary,” Erik says, brow furrowed, “and I never said that.”

“You all but implied it before you left,” Charles says flatly. He feels exhausted. As a fire mage he’d been among the first drafted to fight against the dragons when their attacks had escalated three years ago, and since then he feels like his magic, once a powerful bonfire, has been reduced to mere campfire ashes. He never wanted to fight the dragons—both because he’s still held to the belief that negotiation is always better than attacking, and because he’s been afraid, all these long months, that he’d end up facing Erik one day on the battlefield.

That day has finally come, but not at all in the manner Charles had ever expected.

“Then I’m here to prove you wrong,” Erik says calmly, taking another step forward. “I want to negotiate peace between dragons and humans.”

“On whose authority?” Charles asks in disbelief.

“Mine,” Erik says with a dangerous grin, flashing just as many human teeth as the amount of dragon teeth he has in his natural form. He’s still walking forward slowly, as if he doesn’t want to frighten Charles. “I’m in charge now. I won the right by mortal combat.”

“Gods,” Charles says weakly, staring at him.

“The old drake was the one who started this war,” Erik says. He’s close enough now that Charles can feel his heat, warm and still familiar even after all these years. “I mean to end it. Peacefully. For you.”

“For _me?_ ” Charles asks blankly.

“It’s what you wanted, right?” Erik leans forward, taking in a deep breath, and Charles realizes that he’s scenting him. “Think of it as a gift.”

“Is this your way of apologizing for taking off so suddenly and not sending word to me for five years?” Charles asks, still not understanding.

“Yes,” Erik answers, still breathing him in. His eyes are human but there’s still something otherworldly about them, inextinguishable fire burning within their depths. “The first of many.”

“That—that really isn’t necessary,” Charles says with a weary sigh, “just a normal apology would be fine. Though,” he amends quickly, “I’m not opposed to the peace talks.”

“More gifts are necessary,” Erik says in the same dismissive, don’t-argue-with-me-Charles voice he used to send in. It makes Charles wonder, suddenly, why he ever thought he missed it.

“Really, Erik,” Charles answers, “I just—I was afraid you were dead, you know, for the longest time. And after the way you left...I don’t know. I—”

“I will not leave you again,” Erik interrupts him, oddly solemn, and it’s strange to hear Erik speaking without the accompanying colors of his sendings. “Remember when we were young and I didn’t know what your scent meant?”

Charles stares at him. For all the things that could come out of Erik’s human-shaped mouth, that wasn’t something he’d expected either. “Yes, I remember.”

“I know what it means now,” Erik says, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, leaning closer still. Even in human form his presence is commanding, almost overwhelming. “You don’t smell like _mother_. You barely smell of human. You smell like _mate_.”

 


	16. Professor AU: Erik is a geology professor who does mountains of flirting with Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Charles and Erik are a geology professor and something else. They flirt badly.**

 

The rock grinder is Erik’s favorite piece of equipment in the lab, because while it is so damned loud that he can barely hear himself think, it is also so damned loud that he can’t hear anyone speak. This is, as far as he’s concerned, the best thing ever.

Other professors in the department prefer to foist off rock grinding to chipper undergrads who are eager as puppies to get into a lab and make themselves look good, especially if they’re hoping to get into grad school. Erik sees this as a terrible waste of a valuable resource that is perfect for avoiding people.

Undergrads stop by? Oops, it’s time to grind some samples. Grad students stick their head in the door? Oops, here are three stacks of exams for you to look over and also look at the time, it’s time to grind some samples. Department chair stops by? Oops, it’s time to grind up every single rock in sight and possibly every single rock on campus. For science.

Charles Xavier walks in? Turn off the machine. Immediately.

“I’m not interrupting, am I?” Charles asks, cocking one hip out to lean against the counter. He’s still got his labcoat on from the teaching hospital, his name and department stitched in neat navy blue thread on one breast pocket. Erik may or may not have vivid fantasies that involve fucking him in it. He’s just such a fine-grained specimen that Erik can’t help it.

“Not at all,” Erik answers, “was just doing a little grinding.”

“I bet you’re fantastic at grinding,” Charles says with a grin that is probably illegal in at least twenty-seven countries.

“Among other things,” Erik says with a smile so sharp you could slit throats with it. He’s tried it before. It worked.

“I’ve come for the usual reason,” Charles says, but he’s still wearing traces of that grin, “I need to run a few samples through your department’s mass spectrometer sometime within the next week or so. Is it currently in use?”

“I don’t know off the top of my head,” Erik admits, “but if you’d like we can go back to my office and I can pull up the schedule on Outlook. If it  _ is _ being used now, we can at least slot you in at a specific time later so that it’ll be guaranteed to be open for you.”

“That would be most marbleous my friend,” Charles purrs, and Erik has never put away his rock samples so fast in his life.

“Of quartz,” he says as they leave the lab behind to make their way down the hallway towards the stairs, “anything for you.”

“That’s such a kind sediment,” Charles says as they walk, “I don’t know what I’ve done to garnet such high regard.”

“You’ve always had a certain luster,” Erik admits, “and I’ve never taken our friendship for granite.”

“You get boulder and boulder the more you keep talc-ing,” Charles says, but he sounds almost unreasonably pleased, “whatever shale I do with you?”

“I hope I’m not aggregating you,” Erik says anyway, just to make sure. He doesn’t truly want to bother Charles, but as far as he’s been able to read the signs, the interest is mutual. There’s a certain friction that always lingers between them.

“On the contrary, my friend,” Charles says, “I lava the opportunity to chat with you. It’s always so gneiss to see you.”

“Likewise,” Erik agrees. They reach the stairs and begin to climb up, bypassing the second floor which is mostly classrooms, and heading straight to the third floor. “Sometimes it’s tuff, waiting for you to stop by on business. I always miss you when you argon.”

“I seealite,” Charles says thoughtfully, “I suppose I can only chalk up my lack of personal visits because I wasn’t sure whether or not you regarded me with scarn.”

“Noalite,” Erik says solemnly, “never.”

“I know that now,” Charles says sweetly.

“You guys are giving me diabase,” mutters a grad student under her breath as she passes them.

“Conglomerations,” Erik calls over his shoulder, “you’ve got lab cleanup duty for the next month.”

“Must you be so hard?” Charles asks after the abashed grad student disappears down the stairs in a hurry. “I thought it was rather down to earth of her to be so honest.”

“It’s clear as dacite that there needs to be more order in the lab,” Erik answers dismissively, “you don’t have to be igneous to notice. And she was out of lineation, speaking to professors like that.”

“You should see the expression on your face,” Charles says, amused and sounding like he’s trying not to erupt with laughter. “So stern!”

“It’s not my fault,” Erik says as they reach his office. He digs into his pocket for his keys and unlocks the door with a scrape. “Besides, you know that I’m more bark than albite.”

“I’m pretty sure you can stilbite,” Charles says wryly as they step into Erik’s cramped domain. Every spare inch of flat surface is covered either by hand samples or textbooks, with a few stray papers here and there. “But yes, I know you can be sedimental.”

“Count your blossite,” Erik says as he picks his way around his desk to boot up his ancient computer that whirrs concerningly as soon as he presses the power button, “you’re one of the few who do.”

Charles merely shoots him a warm smile before he goes back to looking around Erik’s office. Standing in the tiny, cluttered space he seems sharper and more defined, standing out like a bright spot. His presence alone erodes Erik’s concentration, and he can barely focus on the keyboard to type in his username and password to login to the system.

“So,” Charles says casually into the companionable silence while Erik waits for his desktop to load, “is it true, what they say about geologists?”

Erik glances up, eyebrows raised.

Charles smirks. “Do you really date anything?”

Erik snorts. “We’re rather fond of probing crevices.”

“Oh,” Charles says, leaning forward with a slow, sly smile, and Erik is relieved that his double entendre didn’t fluorite over Charles’ head, “is that so.”

“We can make the bedrock,” Erik continues. His Outlook calender has finally popped up on the screen but he ignores it in favor of holding eye contact with Charles. “And most of us are hung like horsts.”

“Sounds positively dangerous,” Charles murmurs, placing one hand on Erik’s desk, “but I think I may just have to grin and barite, if only for the sake of...science.”

“I’ve been told the experience is magma-ificent,” Erik says, leaning forward too now. It’s unfortunately, really, how his desk stands between them.

“It sounds like you’ve had a lot of conquests,” Charles says, “been fracking around, then?”

“Those days are behind me,” Erik admits, “because if I’m honest...if I could rearrange the periodic table, I’d put Uranium and Iodine together.”

Charles laughs in delight. “I almost want to accuse you of being full of schist, but it’s crystalline clear that you’re sincere down to the core.”

“I really dig you,” Erik says honestly, “you have my harzburgite.” 

“Well,” Charles answers, deliberate and slow, “you’ve wetted my apatite.”

“Good,” Erik says with another dangerous grin, “I’d hate to have to start over on a clean slate.”

“You’re a bit unconventional and wacke,” Charles says softly, his words ghosting across Erik’s lips because of how far they’re both leaned over Erik’s desk towards each other now, “but darling, you must be calcium bicarbonate because I can already tell that if you get me wet, the reaction will be explosive.” 

Erik closes the rest of the tiny gap between them with a low growl, kissing Charles until they’re both breathless. “I can assure you,” he promises, “you’ll be cummingtonite.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I count 52 geology-related puns! ;)


	17. Soldier!Erik adopts a therapy dog named Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Hi! Charles is an adorable doggie. I mean, Dr. Charles is a qualified therapy dog. He is assigned to live with his human patient, Erik. Erik improves under his care.**

 

Erik did his research carefully and meticulously, just like he does everything else in his life, but the knowledge still does nothing to stop him from lingering on the sidewalk across the street in front of the clinic, back pressed against the cool concrete of the building behind him so that no one can sneak up on him, tense and unsure.

He’s supposed to meet the Agency representative who is bringing his new service companion he’s been matched to. He hadn’t wanted a service companion. Had argued extensively against it. But Emma still wouldn’t be his therapist after five long years if she ever conceded to him at the first sign of his temper.

“You need somebody who’s got your back 24/7 if you ever want to start healing,” she’d said in her best no-nonsense and straight-to-the-point tone that was another reason why he’d gone through four other therapists before finally settling with her. Erik hated beating around the bush for the sake of coddling. “Here’s a list of agencies that train suitable companions. Get yourself on a waiting list by our next appointment or I’ll do it for you.”

“You can’t do that,” Erik had snapped, but that was beside the point as it’d spurred him into action and he’d spent the entirety of the following weekend going over every inch of each agency’s website off the list Emma had given him and now here he is six weeks later, having finally gotten the call that they’d found him a match.

There’s a low roaring in his ears that’s steadily growing louder, threatening to drown out the busy sidewalk and street around him, but Erik takes several deep breaths, willing his heart rate to slow, fists clenched tightly at his sides. If anyone walking past him notices, no one stops, and it takes him several long minutes until he’s calm again, white spots clearing from his vision.

Erik ducks across the street before he can think better of it, shoulders slightly hunched with tension. It’s second nature, now, to glance upwards as he steps under the building’s low-hanging awnings to make sure no one is waiting to drop down on him from above, and then again when he pushes the glass door open to check for a bell. The last time he’d forgotten to check for a bell, he’d nearly torn down the building on accident when the soft ringing noise startled him into defense mode.

He steps into a warm and cozy waiting room, plush chairs lining the walls and various magazines scattered across a low coffee table. Erik’s gaze flickers around the room once—empty, one other doorway besides the one he just came in through, the legs of the chairs are all metal so he can lift them with his power and use them as weapons if he needs to—before he walks over towards the reception desk, unwinding his scarf in quick, practiced motions.

“Major Lehnsherr,” the girl behind the desk greets him, sitting up when he comes to a stop in front of her. “I’m supposed to tell you that you can go on back. They’re in examination room D, so take the first left and then it’s four doors down, but Agent MacTaggert should be out in the hallway.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Erik says stiffly with a nod. He slips through the door, which leads to a long, empty corridor. He walks down towards the first fork, glancing to the right to make sure nobody is in that direction, and once satisfied he takes a left, walking down towards the lone figure standing at the end of the hall.

Agent Moira MacTaggert is flipping through something on her tablet as he approaches, gaze flickering swiftly up and down the glass. He first met her last week, when he came in to sign the official contract. Like Emma, she’s efficient and doesn’t mince words, so Erik finds her tolerable enough.

“Lehnsherr,” she greets him, shaking his hand. “They’re just finishing up some blood work tests on him and then he’s all yours. Remember that if you think that you’re not a good match and want to bring him in after the first week there’s no charge, but after that the fees start racking up.”

“I remember.”

“Good, then initial here, saying that I reminded you.” Moira flips her tablet around and holds the stylus out to him for him to sign.

Erik reads carefully through the small blurb of words on the screen anyway, and then carefully marks the date and his initials at the bottom. Moira tucks the stylus away after he hands it back, and then offers her hand out once again.

“He’s excited to meet you,” she says, with a hint of a faint smile, “so you can go on in whenever you’re ready. You have my card if there are any problems.”

Erik merely nods, shaking her hand again, and then watches her leave before turning around to face the door to examination room D. Now that he’s here, he feels himself calm, centered and still. It’s the same feeling he’d always get right before dropping into a hot zone—no turning back now. He pushes the door open and walks inside.

The stainless steel of the examination table in the center of the room is comforting to his senses, and so oddly is the warm body sitting on top of it. The companion’s ears perk up at the sound of the door, chocolate brown in color and nearly blending in completely with his floppy brown hair, arresting blue eyes sweeping over to meet Erik’s inquisitively. Even though he isn’t standing, Erik can gauge that the companion is a head shorter than he is, though his legs are long and his chest is lightly muscled. Other than his ears, the only other dead giveaway that he’s a companion is his tail—with the same long, chocolate brown fur that is slightly lifted as he studies Erik in return.

Blue eyes widen when he remembers himself. “Hello, Erik,” he says with a crisp British accent, hopping down off the table and approaching with another offered hand, “I’m Dr. Charles Xavier. Er, I guess that’s Dr. Charles Lehnsherr now.”

“Doctor,” Erik says blankly, even as he shakes Charles’ hand. The agency had sent him a file on Charles that Erik had memorized, and that hadn’t been in it.

“My previous master, Dr. Brian Xavier, allowed me to attend courses remotely,” Charles explains, “so while it can’t be recognized officially on my papers, I’ve still got the credentials.” He lifts his chin, meeting Erik’s gaze squarely. “I do hope that’s alright.”

“It’s impressive,” Erik admits honestly, “they should recognize it officially.”

Charles’ smile lights up the tiny room, and his tail waves back and forth once or twice. “Thank you, Erik. Maybe one day.”

They lapse into a slightly awkward silence—or at least it’s awkward on Erik’s end, because he doesn’t know what else to say. He’s never been a people person, and now he’s going to be practically joined at the hip with a companion. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to _do_ this.

“The nurse said she was finished drawing blood,” Charles says calmly, seemingly unaffected by the silence, “so we can leave whenever you’re ready, Erik. Is Erik okay? I can call you master or sir, as you prefer.”

“Erik’s fine,” he says gruffly, and then nods towards the two small suitcases sitting by the table in order to change the subject. “Those yours?”

Charles nods. “I can get them—”

“No, let me.” Erik feels them out with his power, searching for the tiny metal screws that usually hold the wheels and bottom of suitcases in place. He lifts them up like that, faltering a little at the unexpected weight of the first one. “What’s in here, rocks?”

“Books,” Charles admits with a faint flush.

“Of course,” Erik says wryly, and Charles’ tail wags again, pleased.

“Oh, right,” Charles says, trotting over to the single chair in the room and picking up what looks and feels like a bulletproof vest that has an official-looking tag clipped on one side. “Here’s my service companion vest. They had more casual ones, but I…” He looks at Erik uncertainly, holding the vest in front of himself with both hands. “They gave me a packet of information about you, too, and I assumed that you’d like this one best. I hope I didn’t presume too much.”

“No,” Erik says, stepping forward. It doesn’t even take his full attention to keep the two suitcases hovering behind him as he takes the vest out of Charles’ hands. “This one is good.” Safe. A bulletproof vest is safest for Charles, in case they’re attacked.

Charles wags his tail, delighted. “I’m glad. The tag has some basic info about me and is also my official license, so you can take me everywhere, even places that don’t allow companions normally.”

Erik nods slowly, absorbing this information and filing it away carefully. “Turn around, then.”

Charles smiles and obeys, and Erik helps him slip on the vest, making sure it rests flat against his compact shoulders. He finds the front zipper with his power and gently zips it up, encasing Charles in protection. It inexplicably makes Erik feel better just looking at him.

“And here’s the leash,” Charles says, holding it out. It’s short and black, probably to match the simple black collar at Charles’ throat. “You can clip it to my collar or there’s a ring you can hook it onto on the vest, whichever you prefer. Either way I’ll be walking right beside you and won’t be tugging on it.”

“You’re very helpful,” Erik says for lack of anything better, feeling—not overwhelmed, but as if he’s treading water and starting to get tired. This is probably the longest conversation he’s carried out with someone who isn’t Emma, and she barely counts anyway because he’s paying her to talk to him.

Charles smiles warmly. “That’s my job.”

To avoid having to answer, Erik lifts the leash by the metal clip on the end, considering Charles’ collar and vest. Black doesn’t suit him. Blue would be better, to bring out his eyes. Maybe, if this works out, Erik will get him a new one. They’ll have to get a new leash too, because while the clip is metal, the loop on the other end that Erik’s supposed to hold onto isn’t, and that definitely has to change.

He clips the leash onto the vest, and Charles immediately moves to stand next to him, not close enough to touch but his presence is still solidly _there_ , and Erik can clearly see him in his periphery. For all his bright and cheery mannerisms, now that he has the vest and leash on, there’s a different kind of air to him—he’s calm and focused, alert and ready to take any cue that Erik gives him.

“Well,” Erik says, unsure how this is really going to work but a little more willing to try now that he’s met Charles, “let’s go home.”

 

*

 

_6 months later_

Erik undoes the lock and opens his front door with his power, directing their load of grocery bags to float in before them—his homemade rig of reusable bags with a long, thin chain wound through all of their handles has saved the circulation in their fingers on more than one occasion. Charles pads inside beside him, waving tail brushing against Erik’s leg.

Absently Erik unclips the leash from Charles’ vest and sends it floating over to hang on its hook beside the door. He continues forward towards the kitchen to put everything away, while Charles takes off at a trot through the house, sniffing.

It used to be Erik’s ritual, to check every room and closet in the house each time he got home and then once more before he went to bed, unable to truly relax until he’d made sure that he was safe and secure. Now it’s Charles’ job, and Erik trusts him fully—he has ever since the first time Charles asked to check for him in their very first week together, when he’d stood uncertainly in the doorway while Charles made a slow and thorough circuit through the house, and then had come back and said, calm and solemn with no hint of mockery, taking the task just as seriously as Erik did, “All clear.”

“All clear,” Charles reports now, coming back into the kitchen just as Erik is stowing the now-empty grocery bags away. Even now the words still allow Erik to relax by a degree or two, but he’s getting better. This house has never felt more like home, with Charles here.

Erik unzips the vest for him, still the same bulletproof one with a few modifications he’s made himself: namely more metal, so he can feel the shape of it at all times whenever Charles is wearing it. He sends that flying out to hang beside the leash, and then runs a hand briefly through Charles’ hair, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards when Charles’ tail thumps against the cupboards as it wags.

The rest of the evening is quiet, Charles spending most of it curled in his usual corner of the couch with a book while Erik flips through the channels before eventually heaving himself back up to make dinner. Charles doesn’t even look up from his book but moves to the countertop bar overlooking the kitchen to keep Erik company, the metal ring of his royal blue collar bright in Erik’s mind even when Erik has his back to him while he stirs pasta on the stove.

After dinner they retire to Erik’s room together, Charles hopping up on the bed while Erik goes through his nightly routine. He originally set up the guest bedroom for Charles’ use, but after the first time Erik woke up from a night terror to Charles curled around him and talking casually about his studies, what he’d seen and smelled earlier that day, places he’d like to visit both in the city and abroad, Erik found that he very much wanted Charles to stay. Charles hadn’t objected either, and the guest room is empty once more.

When Erik climbs into bed Charles hops back up, setting his book down on the bedside table and slipping out of the room, making one more round through the house for the night. Erik is halfway to dozing by the time Charles returns, a marked improvement from when he used to sit up, tense and ready for fight-or-flight as he waited for Charles’ report.

“All clear,” Charles murmurs as he crawls back up into bed, slipping beneath the covers beside Erik, a warm and familiar presence that Erik never knew he was missing until Charles was there to fill in that empty space.

“Thank you,” Erik says, flicking off the lights with his power and rolling over onto his side to pull Charles close, burying his nose in his soft hair and breathing in deeply. They curl around each other, as they have every night for the past six months, and Erik has never slept better, never felt safer.

Charles merely snuggles closer, and Erik doesn’t have to look to know that he’s smiling.

 


	18. Everyone's A Kid AU: The X-Men are formed on the playground (with help from Tony)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Combined Prompts:**  
>     
>  **Prompt 1: To Raven, he said, "I knew I couldn't be the only one." And let's just say a little lonely boy decides he doesn't want others like him to be alone either (okay, and -he pretends not to think- maybe he'll get more friends, too). so charles may get his recruiting started a taaaaaad early. (maybe bb!charles & bb!raven trying to surreptitiously smuggle a bunch of unwanted bb!mutants into the mansion? or an xmfc!au?)**
> 
> **Prompt 2: My 1st thought when I saw it was 'wow Tony is so much better at recruiting than Erik & Charles are', and now all I can do is wonder how the road trip in XMFC would go if they did have Tony with them?:') Much more successful, much more stressful, both at once??**

 

 

“I don’t know,” Charles says uncertainly, which, granted, is a feeling he experiences often whenever Tony decides to invite himself over for the day (which is a lot of the time, so really Charles should be used to it by now). “I mean, it would be cool to meet others with powers, of course, but really, what are the odds?”

“What are the odds? What are the _odds_?” Tony looks at Charles like he’s crazy, which is really unfair because if any of the three of them sitting underneath the slide in the sand at the park are crazy, it’s Tony. “What are the odds of you and Raven being the only two mutants in existence and also just so happening to meet each other? There has to be more of you. I bet we’re _surrounded_ by mutants.”

“We could start a club,” Raven says, eyes shining. One of them has slipped from its disguised blue and is the golden yellow color of her natural form. “Only mutants allowed.”

“Tony isn’t a mutant,” Charles points out. He’s feeling a little miffed since Tony stole his word—mutants. _He’s_ the one who came up with it, not Tony, and Raven would do well to remember that.

“Hell,” Tony swears brazenly, making Charles frown at him while Raven giggles, “I’m just your invisible sponsor.”

“Anyway,” Charles says pointedly, sitting up as straight as possible to make himself look more grown up and important, “I know that there has to be more of us. We can’t be the only two. But this is why I need to study really hard so I can get into Oxford and study genetics. That’ll be the key.”

“College is like a million years from now,” Tony says dismissively, as if his own father hasn’t already sent him on campus tours at MIT, “you need to make a club now. Spread the word! Come on, Charles, I thought your little activist heart would be all a flutter about this, like that one time with the beavers.”

Charles huffs. “Beavers are an extremely important member of the ecosystem and should be protected in order to ensure—”

“See, listen to him,” Tony says to Raven, who laughs again, her skin flickering blue for a moment. “He’ll be perfect, if only he’d just _get a move on it_. Come on, you and I will start a club.”

“Wait,” Charles says, scrambling up after Tony and Raven as they crawl out from underneath the jungle gym and back into the bright sunlight. “I’m coming too.”

“Huh,” Tony says to Raven as they watch Charles brush the sand out of his clothes, “that worked better than I thought.”

“I’m only coming with you because you both need supervision,” Charles says flatly, folding his arms, “or otherwise it’ll turn out like that one time you tried to bake me a birthday cake.”

“Hey, no one else was going to do it for you,” Tony protests, “and our cake turned out _fabulous_ , didn’t it, Raven?”

“Yes,” Charles says with a snort, “if by ‘fabulous’ you mean ‘covering the kitchen walls as a fabulous new decoration’ then certainly, by all means.”

“That kitchen needs redecorating anyway,” Raven says haughtily, siding with Tony like she always does when the three of them are together. Charles has promised not to read her mind, but sometimes it feels like she’s trying to make him jealous or something and he has no idea why.

“Okay,” Tony says, rubbing his hands together, “here’s the plan. We’ve gotta pitch the idea to them hard and fast, just like in business. Don’t give them a chance to say no.”

“We have to figure out whether or not they’re mutants in the first place,” Charles points out dryly, and then when Tony and Raven both open their mouths at the same time he continues, “and I’m not reading everyone’s mind just to find out.”

“Fine,” Tony says, looking and sounding as if Charles has wounded him, “we’ll do it the old-fashioned way by _asking_.”

“Good idea,” Charles says calmly. Now that he’s thinking about it, it _is_ a pretty good idea. He’s starting to get a little excited. “Alright. If this is a club, then obviously I’m the president—”

“I’m the vice-president,” Raven interjects quickly, already glaring as if she expects Charles to put up a fight about it.

“Raven is the vice-president,” Charles agrees with a nod, and she relaxes, smiling, “and Tony is our...private sponsor?”

“Or mascot,” Tony says with a shrug, “instead of having like, a dog or a tiger or something, you can have a human.”

“That’s perfect!” Raven laughs again, but Charles frowns.

“I don’t know, we’ll have to see about that,” he says slowly, “I think—”

“Details, details,” Tony says, waving a hand, “who cares right now, let’s go recruiting!” He charges off across the playground with Raven in his wake, heading towards a boy who sits on a bench on the edge of the sand pit all by himself.

Charles hurries after them, shielding his eyes from the bright sun overhead. At this rate he’s going to end up with even more freckles than he started with this morning.

“Hey,” Tony is saying when Charles catches up to them, “are you by chance a mutant? Do you have special powers or abilities? Can you do weird but cool things?”

“Tony,” Charles hisses, because this is _not_ the way to go about things.

The boy they’ve cornered on the bench looks terrified, hunching in on himself while trying to lean back at the same time. He’s giving off the impression that if he weren’t sitting down, he’d already be running in the opposite direction. “No—no, I swear I’m not—”

“Hey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Raven says, plopping down on the bench next to him. “Are you really a mutant?”

The boy shakes his head. “ _No_ , I’m not, I _swear_ , just leave me alone.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing,” Tony remarks, “I think you’re lying.”

“Tony, stop,” Charles commands, pushing him gently aside. He offers the boy one of his best smiles, polite and friendly and what Raven always says is too bright, whatever that means. “Hi, I’m Charles. This is my sister, Raven, and our friend Tony, who I promise knows how to shut up. Sometimes.”

“I’m Henry,” the boy says after a small pause, “but you can call me Hank.”

“Hank,” Charles says, beaming and shaking his hand rapidly, “so nice to meet you. What we’re trying to find out is if there are other mutants like us. Raven can turn blue, and I can read minds. Yes, she really can, and you’re thinking of the number 62.”

“Whoa,” Hank says, relaxing slightly. “What can, um, he do?”

“I’m just a mascot,” Tony says with a grin, “and also the club PR manager.”

“No,” Charles assures Hank quickly, “he isn’t.”

“You’re a mutant too, aren’t you, Hank?” Raven asks him, scooting closer on the bench. When he hesitates, she adds, “It’s alright. You don’t have to hide. You’re among friends.”

Hank blushes red when she puts a hand on his shoulder, squirming a little. “Well, my feet—”

Charles feels a sudden sharp burst of _anger_ from across the playground, swelling up so hot and bright in his mind that he nearly staggers sideways into Tony. “You guys k-keep talking,” he says shakily, “I’ll be right back.”

He takes off before any of them can say anything, running past the monkey bars and darting through the middle of the swing-set, ignoring the swinging kids who jeer at him. He’s breathless by the time he reaches the edge of the sandpit, just in time to watch as another boy around his age is shoved roughly into a puddle on the sidewalk by a laughing older boy while a pretty blonde girl looks on with a smirk.

“Go home and cry, there’s a good boy,” the older boy says with a wide smile, looping his arm through his girlfriend’s and together they turn and walk away.

The boy in the puddle scrambles back up to his feet, and it’s him that the rage is coming off of in powerful waves— _insulted my Mama, thinks he can get away with it,_ **_I’ll show him_** —and buffeting Charles like a stormy sea. Charles watches in amazement as the boy’s fists clench, and nearby one of the animal rides on springs implodes into a ball with a loud crunch, the beautiful symphony of mind resonating with metal echoing through Charles’ brain.

“Erik!” Charles cries, reacting instinctively and splashing out into the puddle heedless of the way his shoes and socks are instantly soaked, grabbing onto the boy’s shoulders. _Erik, that’s enough! You’ll hurt someone!_

“Get off me!” The boy—Erik—pushes him away and Charles staggers back and only keeps himself from falling by grabbing onto his wrist. “Who are you? Why were you in my head?”

“Because I’m like you.” They’re panting, both of them, staring at each other with equally wide eyes. Erik’s soaked from where he landed on his side in the puddle but his anger is abating, like a storm moved out to sea: still there with distant lightning flashing, but leaving behind a refreshed peace on land. His mind is the most beautiful thing Charles has ever seen. “I have powers too.”

Erik eyes him warily, still untrusting. “I thought I was alone.”

“Charles!” Tony shouts from across the playground. “Get back over here and check out this kid’s feet! It’s _awesome!_ ”

Charles smiles at Erik, tentatively sliding his hand down Erik’s wrist so he can take Erik’s hand instead, sliding their fingers together. _No, my friend_ , he whispers directly into Erik’s mind, and is rewarded with a bloom of warm curiosity and something dangerously like hope, _you’re not alone_.

 


	19. Steel Wool AU: Erik and Charles have a date night with Erik's flock of steel sheep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Erik and Charles from the[Steel Wool AU](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/tagged/ERIK-WITH-SHEEP) have a date night**

 

This time Erik checks with Ororo for a forecast of the weather every single day for practically two weeks in advance, determined not to have a repeat of the last time he invited Charles over as a romantic overture, where they actually spent the entire day piling sandbags up against the rising river while the largest storm of the season nearly sent the barn house flying–all on top of having to assist one of his oldest ewes safely deliver triplets. Now, thankfully, it’s well past lambing season and as far as he’s concerned it’s worth the cost of having Ororo laugh at him each time she assures him to expect nothing but sunshine with maybe a few harmless, white and fluffy clouds.

The thing is, Erik wants nothing less than perfect weather this time. He wants nothing less than perfect _everything_ , because he doesn’t want to mess up what he has with Charles now. It’s new, tentative and fragile in its infancy, and Erik doesn’t want to somehow crush it before it has a chance to grow. They danced around each other for too long before to let this go to waste, and Erik can’t help but want to nurture it just as he helps nurture the lambs in the flock.

The lambs that are all currently mobbing Charles before he can even make it halfway across the pasture, butting their heads against his shins gleefully while he laughs and bends down to give them each a pat.

Erik approaches more slowly, hands shoved into his pockets with an easy smile working its way across his face at the mere sight of Charles. Just as Ororo promised it’s sunny outside, the late afternoon still hot enough to cook an egg on pavement but seeing Charles warms Erik from the inside out. “Hi,” he says, coming to a stop just beyond the circle of lambs surrounding Charles, and Charles looks up with a grin.

“Hi,” he answers, and carefully picks his way through the lambs over to Erik and leans up for a kiss.

Erik meets him gladly, feeling bold enough to put a hand to the small of Charles’ back as their lips meet, a curling spark of pleasure jolting down his spine. For a moment time seems to slow down around them as they kiss, slow and languid, Erik’s eyes fluttering shut as one of Charles’ hands slides up through his hair. Then Charles breaks away with a small laugh, jolting a little in Erik’s grip, and Erik looks down to discover they’ve been surrounded again.

“Enough,” Erik tells the lambs firmly, catching them all with his powers before they can headbutt Charles again. He floats each of them up into the air, lips twitching at the way they all kick their little legs wildly and bleat in excitement at this new game. “You know better than that.”

“They just wanted to say hello,” Charles says, reaching out to scratch the lamb nearest to him beneath the chin. “Besides,” he adds, digging down into a pocket, “they know I always come bearing treats.”

Erik groans when Charles pulls out an apple, all of the lambs bleating loudly when they see it, straining their necks forward to try and nip at it as Charles laughs. “You’re going to make my sheep fat.”

“Fat, healthy, and happy,” Charles says cheerfully. “Got your pocketknife on you by any chance?”

“Come over here, then,” Erik says with a sigh, though it’s more of a token protest than anything else. He’s pleased Charles likes the sheep so much, and all the sheep seem to adore him in return: even Emma, the herd matriarch and one of the most temperamental sheep Erik has ever encountered, has accepted Charles into the fold.

Together they walk across the pasture towards the tall oak tree near the center, its sprawling branches providing a large cover of shade. On the way there Erik keeps his grip on the lambs and floats them in a lazy orbit around himself and Charles, entertaining the lambs and leaving his hands free so he can slip one down to wrap his fingers around Charles’ and bask in the glow of his projected delight. It’s cooler in the shade, the small breeze whispering through the leaves overhead and ruffling Charles’ hair as they settle down together in the soft dirt near the wizened trunk.

Carefully Erik sets the lambs down, and they go back to frolicking at once, hopping and kicking out their hind legs at each other in play. He digs his pocketknife out and flicks open the blade, handing it over to Charles and watching as Charles sets about carving small chunks out of his apple and feeding them to the lambs one at time.

“Thanks for having me out here again,” Charles says casually as he feeds another piece of apple to little Maggie, who has snuck forward again for another bite.

“I figured we needed a do-over from last time,” Erik admits. “I didn’t want you to think all our dates would include monsoons and live animal birth.”

“It makes life exciting,” Charles laughs. “I was just glad to be able to help. I would’ve been up worrying all night anyway if I’d stayed in town.”

“You were a lot of help,” Erik agrees. He’s stayed completely independent for a long time now, with the firm belief anyone else trying to help him or even work for him would only get in his way. Charles, though, had been perfect: he’d kept right up with Erik and had even come up with a more efficient way to stack the sandbags to keep the wall from collapsing.

“Good to know I’m useful,” Charles says wryly, handing Erik his knife back since the apple has now been completely demolished. He scoots over closer, leaning against Erik and stretching his legs out in the grass. “I did go home and read up everything I could find on birthing lambs the next day, though, so I’ll be even more prepared next season.”

It’s Erik’s turn to laugh, even as his heart flips over several times in his chest. Charles is already planning for next season. Charles expects to still be together with Erik for next season. He wraps an arm around Charles’ shoulders. “Well then.”

“Well then,” Charles repeats teasingly, his telepathy flickering across the surface of Erik’s mind, like a pond skater bug dancing across the bubbling water of the creek. _For many seasons to come, I hope._

 _Me too_ , Erik thinks back, and isn’t even surprised by how right it feels to have Charles in his head, reading his thoughts.

Some of the rest of the flock wanders over from where they’ve all been grazing towards the other end of the pasture, drawn over by the prospect of shade as well as the sound of Charles and Erik’s voices. Emma strides over first, stepping gracefully over the lambs who have finally settled down to nap to sniff at Charles’ offered hand regally before deigning to allow him to pet her. Mystique follows next, Azazel and Janos trailing behind her, and they all give Charles a friendly nudge before settling down in the grass as well.

It’s peaceful, sitting out in the quiet of the countryside as the sky begins to go orange and then purple with the sinking of the sun below the mountains to the west. Erik had plans to make dinner for Charles before they could finally have their first real night in together and still intends to, but he finds himself unwilling to move just quite yet. The sheep are quiet, nearly half the flock settled down around them and the tree, and Charles is warm against his side as the temperature finally begins to cool down a little with the oncoming night.

“I’m not in a hurry,” Charles tells him, smiling up at him and leaning further into Erik’s side. “This is nice.”

“Yes,” Erik agrees, lifting his hand so Maggie can crawl into his lap and curl into a perfect little ball, “it is.” He’ll have to get the sheep settled down in the barn for the night before they head inside, but it won’t take long. They can still sit here for a few more minutes.

“Oh look,” Charles says suddenly, sitting up a little straighter, “fireflies!”

Sure enough, one by one hundreds of tiny, glowing dots are beginning to light up across the pasture. Some remain low in the grass while others begin to lazily drift upwards as the little bugs take flight, tracing golden patterns of light across the air and giving off the impression that Erik’s field has turned into the galaxy itself, mini-stars up close.

“We used to call them lightning bugs, too,” Erik murmurs as a few flutter close, their light reflecting off the gleaming steel wool of the sheep around them.

Charles lifts a hand and holds out a finger delicately to catch one, grinning as it lands right on the tip. “Did you know fireflies light up in order to attract a mate?”

“Do they,” Erik answers absently, a little bit mesmerized by the way the tiny bug’s glow lights up Charles’ eyes.

“They do,” Charles confirms, “it’s supposedly a signal of their desire.”

“It’s definitely working,” Erik says, and Charles’ laughter is muffled on the account of Erik kissing him again, the firefly leaping off of Charles’ finger to hover above their heads, its soft glow nothing compared to how bright their mutual happiness feels reflected between them in the warm summer night.

 


	20. Art thief!Charles and hitman!Erik meet at a masquerade ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Erik and Charles met at a party, it was love at first sight, but they never met again after that. With only Charles’s name in mind, Erik chased after Charles from city to city, collecting Charles’s info on the journey. How would Erik react the moment he finally met Charles again unexpectedly (like if he was about to give up his hopeless chase)
> 
> With thanks to **garnetquyen** for the art! :3

 

 

The last memory Erik has of Charles is helping the shorter, slighter man climb up into the back of a U-Haul, his gloved hand warm in Erik’s and his black clothes helping him blend into the dark shadows. His peacock mask, complete with a frill of sparkling blue-and-green feathers hid all of his face except for his eyes, which hadn’t left Erik’s face for even a second.

“Good luck,” Charles had told him, and for a moment Erik’s voice had gotten caught in his throat.

_Will I ever see you again_ is what he wants to say, but what comes out instead is a croaked, “You too.”

Charles smiles behind his mask. Erik can’t see his mouth and those sinfully red lips he’d been taking advantage of only fifteen minutes before, but he can see the smile in Charles’ eyes. Then Charles had slapped the side of the U-Haul in signal and the truck had roared to life, taking off down the long driveway of the mansion at Erik’s back, disappearing off into the night. All he knows is Charles’ first name, and that he might be a little bit in love.

Erik doesn’t know it yet, but this is the last time he’ll see Charles in two years.

 

*

 

The way they meet is highly unconventional, but Erik’s never been a very conventional man to begin with.

Neither, it appears, is Charles.

Erik’s sole purpose for being at the party–a masquerade ball, of all things, a thinly-veiled excuse to show off lavish wealth–is that he intends to kill its host before the night is out. He’s not even properly invited, but while mansions are big they are also child’s play to infiltrate if one is in possession of a certain set of skills. Erik has made it his business to possess a great deal of skill sets over the course of his so far relatively short, violent life, so the hardest part of this operation turns out to be finding a damn mask to wear.

Or so he thinks.

He finds himself climbing up a rickety drainpipe wearing a flamboyant tiger mask and cursing under his breath every time his hands get tangled in the wild mess of vines growing on the side of the New York estate, distracted enough to not realize that his target window is already open until someone leans out and hums appreciatively.

“Now _that’s_ one I’ve never heard before,” comes a posh British voice, and Erik nearly loses his grip on the drainpipe entirely in surprise.

“What the fuck,” Erik growls along with another string of colorful curses in three different languages, momentarily caught between fight or flight. He holds his ground, drainpipe swaying precariously. This is his best and only opportunity he’ll have to murder one Sebastian Shaw, and he’s not about to lose it now.

“Oh, do come on up.” The man has a peacock-themed mask, and he beckons to Erik like he often encounters strange men climbing sneakily up the sides of houses. “I came in this way too, I’m hardly going to report you for party-crashing. Watch out for the thorns that are about a meter above you, my hand is still bleeding.”

Erik doesn’t like approaching from the low ground but he has no other choice but to keep climbing. He picks his way past the thorns and soon enough is clambering into the house through the window, pulling out one of the various knives he keeps on his person at all times, ready for an attack.

It never comes, as Peacock Mask has moved away from the window, standing with his back to Erik— _f_ _ool —_with his hands clasped neatly, head tilted back as he seemingly admires whatever ornate and most likely priceless painting hangs on the wall.

Erik blames it on his already jittery nerves, but for a moment he finds himself staring at the man’s round, pert ass in definite admiration.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks without turning around, obviously counting on Erik still being there.

Erik pauses. Clearly this man isn’t here for the party, which begs the question of what the hell he is doing here. “I have little interest in paintings.”

“That’s a shame,” Peacock Mask says wistfully, and he does sound genuinely sorry. “Well, I suppose not entirely, since it means you’re not here to steal it too.”

“I’m here to kill someone,” Erik says flatly.

“Goodness, that’s serious,” the man answers, but otherwise doesn’t seem to be able to tear his eyes away from the painting.

Despite himself, Erik is somewhat disappointed. He’s garnered a true flair for the dramatic these days, and there’s nothing like the good old shock factor of announcing that he’s going to kill someone. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Peacock Mask finally turns around to look at him, and grants Erik the view of sparkling blue eyes peering out at him from beneath the disguise. “Well, it’s not me that you’re here to kill, is it?”

“No,” Erik answers flatly, pretending rather hard that he’s not utterly captivated by those eyes alone, “you’re not the man who killed my mother.”

“Ah, revenge.” He says the word knowingly, nodding his head once idly. “A man once stood by and did nothing as my mother slowly drank herself to death.” He looks back up at the painting. “I left him with nothing.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Revenge doesn’t bring you peace, but for your sake, my friend, I hope it helps.”

“Thanks,” Erik says gruffly, shuffling his feet on the thick, expensive carpet. He can count on one hand the number of people who have wished him well in his endeavors. The number is greater than zero but less than two.

“Dear me, this painting is large,” the man says musingly, “I’m supposed to carry it downstairs and out to the maintenance entrance all by myself, and all without being seen, too.”

There’s a lengthy pause.

“Did you,” Erik says haltingly, because he supposes that it’s not every day he meets someone like this with an ass like that, and it’s also not like Shaw will be going anywhere anytime soon with the party in full swing, “want help?”

He turns and beams at Erik from beneath the mask, blue eyes lighting up brilliantly. “That would be _splendid_.” He starts forward, a little hop in his step. “It’ll be heavy, of course, but you seem like you’re just as dashingly strong and handsome as I am, so between the two of us it’ll be easy.”

“Wait,” Erik says quickly, catching sight of the tear in the man’s left glove and the small amount of glistening red, and at this point he’s willing to do quite a lot for a few extra minutes in this strangely endearing man’s company, “let’s take care of that hand first.”

 

*

 

With only a first name and a not-so-widely-advertised career path, Erik doesn’t have much to go on. But still, Erik is anything but not persistent, and he’s good at piecing together tiny scraps of information and going by that.

For the first six months, he works his way down the east coast, attending every important party he hears about either in the newspaper or through word of mouth. He scopes out each place thoroughly in advance, always looking for any form of rare or expensive paintings that might be cause for Charles to attend. Each time he spends the night camped out in front of the most likely target, and each time he winds up disappointed when Charles doesn’t show up, blue eyes nowhere to be seen.

Erik wishes he would’ve thought to ask for a last name, or even a next intended destination. Charles would’ve told him. He’s positive.

After he’s worked his way from New York down to Miami, hopping from city to city and party to party, Erik decides that the east coast is a bust. He spends a long week in Georgia, wondering what the hell he’s doing with his life and if he’s really just moved on from one obsession to another and that this will always be his fate–to chase after the unobtainable until he finally obtains it and is left feeling unsatisfied.

How could he be unsatisfied with Charles? They’ve had only the equivalent of a one-night stand, but a spark was there. Erik knows it.

He hears on the news that a senator in California is having an open house event at his mountain estate as part of a reelection campaign, and the next morning finds Erik on the earliest flight out, headed west.

 

*

 

They end up in a fancy marble-covered bathroom that’s connected to the room, Peacock Mask perched on the edge of the counter while Erik carefully examines his injured hand with both of his own.

“Oh, that’s nice,” he says as Erik gently cleans the wound with a warm cloth, the acoustics of the bathroom turning his voice into something straight out of a porno. Or maybe that’s just Erik’s brain at work.

Focus, Lehnsherr.

“It’s not too deep,” Erik says, which is true enough. The thorns have left three large puncture holes in the man’s hand and he’ll probably have scars, but it’s a small price to pay for the painting he’s planning on stealing. “You should be fine.” He lets go, somewhat reluctantly.

“Thank you.” He lifts both his hands slowly, broadcasting his intentions. “May I…?” he asks, and Erik holds very still as his tiger mask is lifted off his face and set aside. “There you are.”

Erik pulls the peacock mask aside as well, revealing pale, freckle-splayed skin and red lips that quirk up in a smile. “Hello.”

“I’m Charles,” he says, licking his lips.

“I’m Erik,” Erik answers, and leans down and kisses him.

 

*

*

 

Not that Erik has much to go by, but it’s probably the best kiss he’s ever had.

Lifting Charles up and pressing him back against the bathroom door and fucking his brains out is even better.

 

*

 

Six months later, Erik decides that California is a bust. So is Oregon. And Washington, and Idaho, and he’s been in Las Vegas for a month now except that doesn’t really count as he’s spent more time drinking than actually looking for a certain blue-eyed art thief. By this point he’s fairly certain that Charles has disappeared off the face of the earth entirely, or has given up stealing priceless paintings and has retired on a farm somewhere quiet with all of them hanging up in his living room.

He feels like he’s been doing a lot of soul searching lately, now that he has time to, and it seems he’s really good at feeling sorry for himself.

Then one morning dawns when he’s still wildly hungover from the night before when he overhears a news broadcast about how an original Dali was stolen from a museum down in Phoenix.

Erik sobers up quickly, and finds that he’s also good at cleaning up his act fairly swiftly too. Arizona! Charles was only state away last night, and may yet still be close. Erik rolls out of Las Vegas within the hour and never looks back.

This will be the last bit of news possibly regarding Charles that Erik will hear for an entire year.

 

*

 

Erik doesn’t remember exactly how they manage to pry themselves apart and redress, helping each other get their masks back on straight, or how they ever even manage to get the painting off the wall, down two flights of stairs and past an entire ballroom of guests–they only have to pass by one of the doors leading into the room but still, it’s a miracle that they go unnoticed–and out to the side entrance of the mansion usually reserved for maintenance crews.

A U-Haul truck waits directly outside the door, a girl with her long blond hair tucked up underneath a dragon mask, of all things, waits leaned against its side. She leaps up when she catches sight of them. “Charles, what took you so—who’s he?”

“A friend,” Charles grunts as he and Erik carefully maneuver the painting into the back of the truck, setting it down as to where it won’t fall. “Get the truck started, will you, darling?”

“Hurry up,” she snaps, and then climbs into the front cab.

“My sister,” Charles explains, turning back to Erik.

“Oh,” Erik answers, trying not to sound too relieved.

“I suppose this is it,” Charles says hesitantly, as if reluctant to leave. “I’d offer to help you in return, but I’m afraid I’m just not quite cut out for ah–your sort of business.”

“I work alone,” Erik answers dryly, “but it’s the thought that counts.”

Charles chuckles. “That’s what I hoped.” He tilts his head, glittery sequins on his mask catching some of the light spilling out of the open door behind Erik. “Do be careful.”

“More careful than you,” Erik says, with a nod down to Charles’ hand.

“Indeed,” Charles agrees in amusement, and at that moment Erik would honestly like nothing more than to kiss him again.

But he doesn’t, and reaches out to offer him a hand into the back of the U-Haul instead.

 

*

 

He ends up killing Shaw when the man takes a break from dancing to use the loo, and slips away from the party before anyone even notices Shaw is missing. It’s rather anticlimactic, after spending all these years waiting for this perfect, opportune moment.

All he can think about is how he regrets not kissing Charles one last time.

 

*

 

Erik ends up in New York again for no real reason, landing in New York City only because he’s tired of huge, grand mansions and is feeling metropolitan. Charles has well and truly disappeared this time, and Erik hasn’t heard any kind of trace of him in months, zigzagging back and forth across the United States map haphazardly, meandering back and forth from north to south, always headed east.

It’s likely that he’ll never see Charles again, and has just spent the past two years of his life doing…what, exactly? It doesn’t matter now. All of it was in vain. Bitterly, he wonders how long he’ll have to wait until a new obsession pulls him under.

“I think I quit,” he says out loud to himself as he walks through Central Park. It makes him feel a little bit better. Not by much, but still.

It’s the thought that counts.

“Erik?” a tentative voice asks behind him, and even though it’s been two years since Erik has heard it, he’d recognize that posh British accent anywhere.

He whirls around, coming to a dead stop. Not five feet behind him is Charles, his expression moving from hopeful to joyous as soon as he’s met with Erik’s surprised, incredulous face. He smiles, and Erik swears that the world gets a little brighter.

“Charles,” he says, rooted to the spot, unsure what to do now that the person he’s been searching for all this time is finally standing in front of him.

“You remember,” Charles says hopefully, and Erik sort of wants to shake him and shout _of course, how could I ever forget?_ “It was a long time ago, and so brief, but I thought I recognized you and then you said something and, um, I’d know your voice anywhere so—”

Erik closes the gap between them in two giant strides and kisses him, and his brain just about short-circuits in happiness at the feeling of those plush, red lips against his own again. It’s been a long time coming.

He hasn’t had anything to compare the sensation to for a long, long time, but it feels like coming home.

“Oh,” Charles says when they break apart, sounding slightly dazed but nonetheless pleased. “You _do_ remember.”

He blinks up at Erik languidly, clearly enjoying their close proximity to one another where they stand clutching onto each other in the middle of the path. Erik is relieved, because he’s not sure that he could let go anytime soon. He’d gotten the blue of Charles’ eyes wrong, he thinks absently as he gazes at them. They’re even bluer in person as opposed to old, faded memories.

Charles clears his throat. “I heard about Shaw. I mean, that was awhile ago now, but still. I thought about you. Congratulations.”

“I’ve been looking for you for two years,” Erik says very seriously, because killing Shaw wasn’t the most important thing to happen to him that night so long ago, “and I have a lot to say.”

Charles smiles, and Erik doesn’t hesitate this time to duck down for another kiss, not intending to leave room for any more regrets. Not this time. “Well, my friend,” Charles says, reaching up to press one hand against Erik’s cheek, three small pockmarked scars in his palm brushing against his skin lightly, “we have all the time in the world now to catch up.”

 


	21. Soulmate AU: Charles meets his soulmate at last by getting into a car accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: SOMEONE WRITE IT! Charles and Erik had a minor collision and fucking pan suggested its because its a soul bond thing and they realize its each other and then Charles’ bag of art supplies flies and he climbs out from his vespa wanting to pick it up and then proceed to scold the man off but then yes and also making out right there on the cobbled ground.**
> 
>  
> 
> Link to original image post [here](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/post/53209464265/luciddrugs-someone-write-it-charles-and-erik) (linking to my blog because the original source blog has been deleted).

 

 

*

 

They always said finding your soulmate was never a concrete thing, that it could happen anywhere at any given time no matter what else was going on, that probability indicated that you could circle your soulmate in the same small town for a lifetime and never feel the sharp snap of the bond forming with the sweet song of finding your perfect other half sliding into place where they were always meant to be if you were never both in the exact right place at the exact right time.

Charles never paid much attention to the stories or the epic blockbusters regarding soulbonds, because it would either happen or it wouldn’t and he has much bigger things to be worrying about anyway, such as getting across town in time for his art class as he’s already running late and by now his students will be wondering.

At least, he’d held this belief right up until he takes a turn on his Vespa too fast right as a car is turning the same direction and he glances up in time to meet startled, gunmetal grey eyes and feels a sharp _twinge_ that runs through his whole body before he promptly loses control of the bike and keels over, skidding several feet across the cobblestone.

The next few moments are disorientating and blurry, a wild mix of spinning sky and hey, those are his best colored pencils scattered everywhere from where his worn satchel has been upended, a few of his recent sketches fluttering in the breeze, but all of that diminishes instantly in importance as soon as running footsteps approach and two broad, long-fingered hands grip him by the shoulders, pulling his helmet off and then that same pair of eyes are peering into his.

“It’s you,” Charles says faintly, and is surprised.  That’s not what he meant to say at all.

“I–yes,” is the answer, somewhat stunned, “it’s me.  It’s _you_.”

They stare at each other, then, even where they sit in the middle of the intersection, all the rest of the traffic and people utterly forgotten.  They should probably move.  They should probably do _something_.  But all Charles can do is look.  This is him.  This is his soulmate.  Their bond hums between them, practically visible in this new closeness, alive and strong.

“We almost just killed each other,” Charles says, because that seems like the next most logical thing to say.

A snort.  “I would have been fine.  You, on the other hand."  The hands on his shoulders tighten a little, as if making sure he’s still actually there, unharmed and well.  "I’m glad you were wearing a helmet.”

Charles laughs.  “Me too."  Then he adds, "I’m Charles.”

“Erik,” his soulmate replies, eyes going a little soft around the edges, and he reaches up gently with one hand to trace the side of Charles’ face.  Charles leans into the touch and it feels like coming home.  “I’m glad to meet you, Charles.”

“And I you,” Charles whispers, and then curls his fingers through Erik’s short, soft hair and pulls him down into a kiss, only the first of many still to come.

 


	22. Coffee Shop AU + Demon AU: Charles wants a little real-world human connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: coffee shop au in hell**

 

“Must everything always be so—” and here Charles pauses, and Erik’s practically able to see that stiff upper lip curling, “— _charred_ around here?”

“You do realize,” Erik drawls with patience that can only be earned through 611 long, grueling years of existence, “we _are_ in Hell.”

Charles’ mouth drops open, red and alluring. Erik’s wanted to do unspeakable things to it and to Charles in general since they met, 487 years ago. Not that he’s counting. “No,” Charles says, mockingly grave, eyes widened in pretend shock, “you don’t say. Is  _that_ where we are? I could’ve sworn we were in Florida.”

“What’s the difference,” Erik mutters, and takes a long, rude slurp from his cup, the bitter coffee scalding nicely on the way down. Now that Charles mentions it, it does taste a little burnt, as if Azazel let it brew for half a century before deeming it acceptable to serve. Erik honestly wouldn’t put it past him.

“Of course I’m right,” Charles informs him, his tail flicking against Erik’s leg in that smug little way of his, “I’m always right. I should’ve ordered tea. I’ve heard the Sinner’s Tears brew is particularly delightful.”

“You’re the one who _had_ to have coffee,” Erik reminds him, “we had to trek all the way across the Plain of Eternal Sorrows for this shit. I had to ask one of the Damned for directions, and she wouldn’t stop staring at my horns.”

“Your horns are lovely,” Charles says absently, eyes glued to the TV screen above the menu board that, in true Hellish fashion, only plays an endless loop of the same three infomercials, “I cannot fathom why you’re so touchy about them.”

“I’m not touchy about them,” Erik snaps. He reaches up to make sure his hair falls appealingly around the curving spirals just in case. “I’m just aware that they’re not the usual pointed spikes everyone else goes on and on about. Which I don’t see what’s so great about those anyway, you know.”

“I think yours are charming,” Charles says frankly, turning his blue eyes back to Erik. Erik has a running theory that Charles is at _least_ half succubus and just won’t admit it, because there’s no way those eyes could come from any other miserable species around here. “And when have you ever cared about what anyone else thinks anyway?”

“I don’t,” Erik insists, and tosses back the last of his coffee and tries not to wince at the way it tastes distressingly like remnants of the tortured souls from the Inner Rings. Judging by how many teeth Azazel used to grin at him with from across the top of the register when Erik initially placed their order, it's probably not far off the mark.

“So,” Charles says after they’ve rewatched the entire Egg Wave infomercial, clearing his throat. “What are your plans for the rest of the day?”

Erik considers. “We could go fester in the Pit of Hopeless Apathy for awhile,” he suggests blithely, assuming that as always, by _your_ Charles actually means _our_ , “or we could visit Raven, but if she wants to take a trip to the Physical World again then I’m out. My essence still hasn’t recovered from last time.”

“Actually,” Charles says, swiveling in his seat to face Erik directly, “you know that practice they have in the Physical World, all about the, ah, what was it, real-world human connection?”

“Yes,” Erik says stiffly, sitting very still on his stool and trying not to reveal just how high his levels of lust have shot up in the past three seconds.

“I was thinking we could go back to my place and…engage…in a little real-world human connection ourselves.”

There’s a full moment where Erik can only stare at Charles blankly, wondering if the coffee here really is so bad that it’s causing him to have vivid hallucinations, but Charles must overhear that because he grins, sultry and wicked, his tail wrapping all the way up Erik’s leg.

“I’ve made a few certain observations,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows, “and there are a few things I’m _dying_ to try out with you.”

“Bless,” Erik swears, earning himself several scathing looks from other patrons in the shop but he hardly cares, jolting up to his feet and grabbing Charles’ hand to pull him towards the door. Charles laughs as he follows along, and as soon as they’re outside he stops and pulls Erik down into a kiss, their first kiss, and if it tastes a little like burnt coffee, well, Erik’s a little busy feeling like he’s been lifted out of purgatory at long last to complain.

 


	23. Slug AU: The One With Slug Porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Cherik as leopard slugs**
> 
>  
> 
> Written on a dare, lmao. The actual slug sex itself is accurate up to a certain extent. Wink wonk.

 

Erik has lost count for how long they’ve been circling each other, round and round and round, their private leaf shining with trails of thick, clear mucus left behind in their wake. He licks Charles again, delighting in the slightly smaller slug’s fresh, earthy taste and the way Charles shivers in delight, nudging closer to lick Erik back. Erik sighs in contentment, congratulating himself once again for picking up on Charles’ trail so many hours ago and pursuing the smaller slug.

 _Shall we?_ Charles asks him, brushing his two small feelers gently across Erik’s face.

 _After you_ , Erik tells him, unable to resist giving him one last lick.

Charles leads the way up the tree, climbing slowly but steadily while Erik follows in his wake, latching on to Charles’ keel gently. He nibbles on Charles lightly all the way up to the first overhanging branch, sliding along through Charles’ slime in a nice, smooth glide.

They reach the underside of the branch and begin to twine together, wrapping around each other as closely as they can manage. Charles lets out a soft moan as Erik makes sure to coil his full body around the smaller slug, holding him in a tight, firm grasp with a low growl of **_mine_**.

They release their hold on the branch together as one, sliding slowly down in midair, held aloft only by a single thick, white rope of mucus still anchored to the bark. They spin slowly as they descend, holding on to each other tightly in a sticky, slick embrace.

They release their penises from their gonopores, or tiny little openings just behind their heads, extending them out longer and longer, watching as they begin to corkscrew. Charles jolts in Erik’s grasp when Erik begins to twine his cock around Charles’ wrapping them together just like he had their bodies, reaching around to brush his feelers against Charles’ face when the smaller slug whines.

Their joined cocks begin to fan out, forming a translucent, flower-like globe, and they both moan as they come in unison, transferring their sperm between each other through their bond, fertilizing one another. Later they’ll both lay hundreds of eggs, their very own brood, and likely Charles has already thought up names for every single one.

 _Erik_ , Charles sighs, limp in his grasp, _that was amazing._

 _Ah yes_ , Erik replies smugly, greatly pleased, _slimy but satisfying._


	24. Modern Day AU: Erik builds a pillow and blanket nest (and then sex)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Nesting Habits**

 

Getting the front door unlocked and then open is a bit of a struggle when Charles is juggling somewhere between nine and nine hundred grocery bags.  It takes him a full minute to get the door open wide enough for himself to squeeze through, nearly tripping over the welcome mat in the tiny front hallway of the apartment when he finally gets inside.

"I know you’re home, you know,” he calls irritably into the dark apartment because in this kind of proximity he can feel Erik’s familiar mind as a low murmur of thoughts in the back of his head, “and really, no lights on?  What are you, a cave dweller?”

He gets no response, aloud or mentally, even though he _knows_ Erik is at the very least awake.  Charles rolls his eyes and stomps into the kitchen, heaving the bags up onto the counter and grimacing slightly when blood is suddenly allowed to rush back into his fingers.  Massaging them a little, he flicks on the lights and sets about getting things put away.  If he makes a little more noise than is probably necessary while doing it, then that’s his own petty prerogative.

By the time he’s finished he still hasn’t gotten any kind of greeting from Erik let alone acknowledgement, so Charles stalks through the dark apartment back to their bedroom, pulling open the blinds on windows as he goes to let in the early afternoon sun.  The bedroom is predictably even darker than the rest of the apartment had been, so Charles folds his arms and leans against the door frame.

“I know you felt me struggling all the way up the stairs with those bags, but you can’t even get the door for me?” he says to the dark room.  He leans over and flicks on the light, not without a small burst of vindictiveness.  “Can’t even say hello, either—what are you _doing_?”

Erik is…not even visible at the moment, due to the fact that he’s turned the entire bed into a mountain of pillows and blankets.  Charles recognizes the couch cushions and the spare set of pillows from the guest room, all carefully arranged around the edges of the bed and lined with several blankets.  Their comforter has been yanked up to fill the center of the circle, covering a large lump that he can only assume is Erik.

His assumption is confirmed when Erik’s voice, made gravelly by sleepiness and muffled on the account that he is _burrowing in their bed_ , floats out from beneath the covers.  “Do you ever just want to get a lot of pillows and blankets and build a nest?”

“N-o?” Charles answers, eyebrows raised even though Erik can’t see him.

“Oh."  Erik’s voice rides the edge of a yawn.  "You should—try it.  It’s nice.  This is nice.  Would be better if you came in."  The lump under the covers shifts around a bit and an arm creeps out, patting the edge of his…nest…invitingly.

"It’s nearly two in the afternoon, Erik,” Charles says dryly, though he can’t help but huff out a laugh.  Erik Lehnsherr, building nests.  It reminds him of the blanket forts he and Raven used to build when they were children, though a nest seems more homey than a fort.  “Put the couch cushions back on the couch when you’re done, yes?”

“Eh,” Erik says, sounding disinclined to move at all.

Charles ignores him, walking around the side of the bed and into their closet to shuck off his jacket and toe off his shoes.  He has a stack of papers to grade by the end of the weekend that he can get a good head start on.  It’s early enough still that he may even be able to finish them all today and not have to worry about anything tomorrow, a prospect that’s looking more and more inviting by the second–maybe Erik’s weekend laziness is oozing out and affecting him.

He’s reaching to hang his coat up properly when something warm and solid brushes up behind him, two heavily-muscled arms coming up to wrap around him and pull him back against a broad chest.  Erik is sluggish and languid as he pushes his nose into Charles’ hair and breathes deeply, and Charles has to laugh at how Erik's practically purring.

“Yes, _hello_ ,” he says, even as he leans back slightly and allows Erik to take some of his weight.  Erik’s shirtless so it’s heated skin that Charles leans against, making him feel suddenly overdressed.  “Nice to see you up and out of your _nest_.”

Erik mumbles something that isn’t quite coherent, dropping his head down so he can press a kiss to the side of Charles’ neck while pulling him in even closer, arms tightening.  Charles shivers, eyes closing for a moment as he allows himself to bask in Erik’s attention; all its hefty weight is focused entirely on him, his thoughts radiating with warm contentment that Charles could happily wrap himself up in like a blanket.  To his small, inconsequential chagrin, his initial annoyance with Erik has all but evaporated–and how could it not, with Erik rubbing his cheek against Charles’ like an overgrown cat with bristly stubble.

“Come back to the nest.”

Charles laughs and moves to untangle himself from the octopus clinging to him–part-octopus, part-furnace.  “No, Erik, I’m not going to get in your nest—"  He yelps when Erik merely scoops him up, one arm at his back and the other beneath his knees, carrying him bridal-style back to their bed and effortlessly dumps him into his nest like some kind of prize.

Charles bounces once or twice, sinking down into warm, cushy blankets and the memory-foam mattress that Erik _had_ to have when they’d originally been out shopping for a bed so many months ago.  Erik crawls in after him, stopping for a moment to fix some of the pillows that have caved in from all the movement, giving Charles an affronted look like it’s _his_ fault as he carefully straightens them, flicking off the light overhead with his power.

" _Erik_ ," Charles says, squirming back up out of the cocoon of warmth even as he laughs again, "this is very nice, but—”

“Shh,” Erik says with a yawn, pushing him back down absently with one large hand and holding him there, fingers splayed out across Charles’ chest.  He finishes fixing the sides of his nest with his other hand and then turns and yanks the comforter out from underneath Charles.

Charles sighs and goes limp, allowing himself to be gently manhandled as Erik sees fit, rearranged so that they’re curled tightly together in the middle of the nest with the comforter thrown over them; Charles’ back to Erik’s chest and their legs tangled as Erik slots them together, one long line of heat pressed against him.

“Better,” Erik murmurs drowsily, evidently pleased with himself, and Charles snorts.  It turns into more of an embarrassing whimper when Erik presses an open-mouthed kiss to the back of his neck, tracing his tongue along the muscle there until Charles is shuddering in Erik’s grasp, goosebumps rising along his arms despite the warmth.  Erik is projecting lazy arousal as he shifts to mouth at Charles’ shoulder next, slow and sloppy.

“I have—things—” Charles manages to get out, even as he feels the zipper of his trousers to inch its way down, “—that I should—do—”

“You can’t tell me you don’t like the nest,” Erik says.  His hand slides under Charles’ shirt, slowly trailing down his belly until his fingers rest just above the waistband of Charles’ pants, tantalizingly close to where Charles needs them to be–despite his protests, his body is very much on board with this new plan.

“You’re like a bird,” Charles huffs out, twisting a little in Erik’s grip so he can buck his hips forward a little in frustration, “building a nest to attract a mate—come _on—_ ”

“Hm,” Erik hums but his thoughts are tinged with amusement as he finally slips his hand down and wraps his fingers around Charles’ cock, giving him a few firm strokes, his dry hand rough and hot and perfect.  Charles lets out a whine from the back of his throat, jerking forward into Erik’s relentless grip and grinding back purposefully against Erik’s crotch where he can feel the long, hard line of Erik’s cock pressing against his ass.

Erik gives a low groan, his strokes speeding up and Charles’s mouth has fallen open wide as he pants, reaching a fever pitch as he nears the edge.  Erik keeps one arm tightly around his chest, holding him in place from squirming too much as he presses his thumb against Charles’ slit, long fingers rippling down the rest of his length, and long moan rips itself out of Charles’ mouth as he comes, shaking through the aftershocks in pleasure.  Too blissed-out, he barely even reacts as Erik lets go, rolling Charles over onto his stomach and lifting himself up to rut against the backs of Charles’ legs until he comes as well, shooting warm and sticky across Charles’ back.

Charles stays where he is as Erik flops back down beside him, eyes half-lidded and currently too boneless to even consider moving.  Erik twists onto his side and tucks them together again, this time pressed chest-to-chest, and Charles can feel their heartbeats gradually slowing.  It’s nearly too warm in their nest, now that they’re slightly sweaty and sticky and some of the pillows have caved in on top of them, burying them beneath the comforter in their various states of half-dressed, but Charles finds that he is utterly content right where he is, parting his lips pliantly when Erik ducks down for a long, slow kiss.

“Alright,” he admits after a few moments spent idly drifting in and out of Erik’s thoughts, “I like the nest.”

“Mm,” Erik says, his chest vibrating with a chuckle, “somehow I knew you would.”

Charles yawns gently, snuggling down deeper into the warmth, and it’s frighteningly easy to convince himself that this is not a day wasted at all.

 


	25. Star Wars AU 1: Jedi!Charles must convince Sith!Erik to come back with him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: STAR WARS AU!!!**
> 
> Written for **Thacmis** ' [sketch](http://thacmis.tumblr.com/post/133170872463/star-wars-au-im-sorry-if-those-exclamation)!

 

“Erik,” Charles says, calm, calm, always balanced and serene, just like how the Order teaches. Even now, when his heart is caught somewhere in the vicinity of his throat. “It doesn’t have to end like this.”

“It doesn’t have to end at all,” Erik says harshly, chest heaving as he pants for breath. Both arms are held out wide, dual lightsabers poised for battle. The red glow throws the familiar angles of his face into harsh relief. “Don’t make me do this.”

Charles gives a short laugh, wan and mirthless. “I’m not making you do anything, my friend,” he answers, twirling his dual lightsabers slowly, sturdy fingers nimble on the hilt. Erik isn’t the only one with two blades, but Charles elects to keep his as one long, double-ended sword. “I never could.”

“Then why do you oppose me?” Erik asks through clenched teeth.

“Then why did you try to kill me on Mustafar?” Charles asks softly. He shifts his stance slightly, putting a little more weight on his left angle. It hurts, the small spike of pain only adding to the heavy exhaustion weighing on him like gravity itself.

He can tell Erik is weary too–both of them are spent. They’re too evenly matched, cancelling each other out like a math equation. They are equal and opposite, when they should be together, side-by-side. Charles longs for how things were before, when he and Erik were inseparable, almost melded into one in the eyes of the Force. But the attachment has only proven to rip them both apart, and Charles’ heart _aches_.

“Because I couldn’t let you confront Shaw,” Erik says tightly, fingers white with how tightly he grips his lightsabers. “You would have destroyed him, and I still need him.”

“Becoming Shaw’s apprentice will not bring you peace,” Charles says. “Whatever he’s promised to teach you is false. No one can bring back the dead, Erik. You know this.”

For a moment pain crosses Erik’s face, heart-wrenching and absolute, and Charles breathes out shakily at the same time Erik draws in a jagged breath. “You don’t know that. You’re content to stay on the Light side. There are still so many things left unexplored on the other side of the Force.”

Footsteps are approaching, the mechanical march of what can only be an entire battalion of droids heading towards them. “Will it be worth the cost, to bring Edie back?” Charles asks, not pleading but insistent. “Killing and destroying, seeping yourself in the Dark side? Is this what she would want for you?”

Erik doesn’t answer, and Charles can’t see his expression past the red glow of his lightsabers as he shifts his grip on them. The droids are marching into the room now, row after row, spreading out to surround them both. There are too many. Alone, Charles will not survive this. He knew that, in coming here.

“The Dark side is not the only fully unexplored side, Erik,” Charles says as the droids all raise their guns in terrifying unison, locking on to where he stands. “You’re right when you say it doesn’t have to end at all. Come back to me. Let _me_ help you, not Shaw.”

For a long moment everything is still. The droids are motionless, waiting for Erik’s command. Charles is tense, waiting, and Erik could be carved from stone for all he moves. If only he could find the exact right thing to say, Charles thinks, if only he knew what it would take to get Erik back.

“I love you,” he says, because it’s the only thing he has left. He can feel the Force resonating around them, so palpable in strength it pulses in time with each of their beating hearts. “I don’t care what the Council thinks. Love shouldn’t be a crime. You loved your mother, and I love you. We can do this together.”

At last Erik moves, but not to attack–light and fluid on his feet, he closes the distance between them, lightsabers twirling, and their backs brush lightly as he stops behind Charles, squaring off with him against the waiting droids. “I thought you’d never say it,” he says quietly, but so, so relieved, and Charles wants to turn and press against him, hold him close. “I thought I would always be alone.”

“You will never be alone,” Charles promises him, coiling his muscles and preparing to spring into action. With Erik on his side, they can win. Like this, they’re unstoppable. He rotates his lightsabers into a battle-ready position. “Now let’s finish this.”

“Yes,” Erik says at his back, lifting his lightsabers high, “together.”

 


	26. Star Wars AU 2: Anakin!Erik and Padme!Charles discuss the merits of sand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: padme!charl and anakin!erik au but where no one dies or goes vader ok**
> 
> Written for another [sketch](http://thacmis.tumblr.com/post/138069653911/another-star-wars-au-cherik-sketch-x-padmecharl) by **Thacmis**!

 

“No, no,” Charles says quickly, stifling another laugh with the back of his hand, “start over. Say it again.”

Erik narrows his eyes. He’s stared down many a droid with this exact look, and once even sent an entire squad of battle droids scampering away without even having to draw his lightsaber, but Charles is merely laughing at him, completely unafraid. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Never,” Charles says solemnly, reaching over to slide his hand between both of Erik’s again. The silky fabric of his Naboo garments whispers softly against the smooth stone railing they lean against together. “You were saying?”

“That I hate sand,” Erik says slowly, still eyeing Charles suspiciously even as he folds his fingers around Charles’ hand. “That it’s coarse and irritating, and—”

“—it gets everywhere,” Charles finishes with him, and lets out another small laugh. “I apologize, my friend. You just sounded so _serious_ the first time. Like sand was your ultimate nemesis.”

“You’ve been to Tatooine, you’ve seen how obnoxious it is,” Erik grumbles, but he can’t bring himself to be truly annoyed. Not when Charles is solid and warm at his side, like something out of Erik’s dreams. “I suppose it could be my ultimate nemesis. Darth Sandious.”

“We shouldn’t even joke,” Charles says, but his blue eyes are bright, dancing with amusement and the near-blinding reflection of sunlight off the waves of the deep lake surrounding their little island hideaway. Erik couldn’t imagine a planet more suitable for Charles to hail from–lush and green and _beautiful_ , the polar opposite of Tatooine if there ever was one, but not without its deadliness: Erik’s been through Naboo’s dark abysses, and seen the kind of creatures that lurk there. Despite its outward appearance, Naboo has its layers, much like Charles himself; not even counting the endless amount that make up his wardrobe.

“It’s not as if talking about the Sith summons them,” Erik says, taking his turn to tease.

“One can never be too cautious,” Charles says while Erik reaches over to trace the slope of one bare, freckled shoulder simply because he can’t help himself. Charles doesn’t lean away, and Erik is pleased. “After all, we’re only here because someone tried to kill me. It could’ve been Darth Sandious.”

Erik snorts. “And I’m here to protect you. Which I will.”

“Even from sand?” Charles asks, eyes wide with mock-innocence.

“Do you think my lightsaber would melt sand into glass?” Erik asks, flashing a sharp grin. “I could make a sculpture out of it— _Charles Xavier, Most Beloved Queen of Naboo_.”

“Senator,” Charles corrects, reaching up to tug lightly on Erik’s braid, “if you’re going to make a statue out of me. I’d like to think my legacy as senator will be much more illustrious than my term as queen. I can make a bigger difference in the galaxy at the senate level, instead of only dealing with local politics. Not that I didn’t enjoy serving Naboo, of course.”

“Desire for grandeur,” Erik pretends to note, “that could be a sign of a Sith. Maybe I’m facing the true Darth Sandious right now.”

“You mock me now, but you won’t be when I use the Force to create a giant sandstorm.”

“That’s not how the Force works,” Erik says, rolling his eyes, but he discovers he’s smiling, laughing along with Charles in their private little corner of the universe.

Much later, when Erik is looking into the yellow eyes of Senator Shaw and listening to his tantalizing promises of unlimited power and the ability to save his husband from death itself, Erik is reminded of their laughter on that tiny island on Naboo and decides _Darth Sidious_ sounds a little too much like _Darth Sandious_ for his tastes, so he lets Shaw fall.

After all, Charles is waiting for him at home.

 


	27. Incubus!Charles makes the mistake of attempting to seduce a dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: How dragon!Erik and incubus!Charles first met**
> 
> A prequel to [The Dragon King's Incubus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4708913), with thanks to **garnetquyen** for the art!

 

Charles has worked hard for this.

He’s hungry since he hasn’t fed for the better part of the month, which is probably what costs him, in the end. He’s rushed through his usual rituals of seduction, slapping on the Glamour a little too loudly, but he can’t help it: _this_ particular specimen looks divinely delicious, and Charles wants the taste of his tongue in his mouth and the feeling of his cock up his ass within the next ten minutes or he’s going to completely lose it.

Right now they’re holding eye contact while Charles straddles him on the bed, undulating his hips slowly and rubbing himself over the hard, hot heat of his victim’s still-clothed cock. Erik, as he calls himself, is reclined back against the silk pillows of his frankly ridiculously large bed, eyes glinting but slack-jawed in pleasure.

Despite his hunger, Charles can feel himself getting into it. Erik is exactly his type—long and lean, the angles on both his face and muscle definition to die for. His large hands slide up Charles’ pale thighs, long fingers splaying out across Charles’ hips. Everywhere they touch is heated, and Charles shudders, throwing back his head for a moment to show off the long line of his throat, and beneath him Erik shifts, hips jerking up once and causing them both to moan. Soon they’ll be at the point where Charles can begin to siphon off their lust, and then finish the deed to finally sate his hunger.

It is a pity, Charles thinks absently through his lust-filled haze, that he’ll only ever be able to sleep with Erik once.

But then Erik says, “You have wings,” and Charles freezes.

He glances over his shoulder. Sure enough his wings are hazily visible, starting to become more corporeal. Usually Charles doesn’t have any problem with keeping them hidden, but right now in his hunger, his control is starting to slip.

 

 

“I think you’re a little drunk, darling,” Charles says smoothly. He can still salvage this; they’d drank plenty of wine until finally making it to this point. Charles of course is unaffected, but that’s the whole point. “Should I be worried now you won’t think I’m pretty in the morning?”

“I don’t get drunk,” Erik says wryly. His hands are still gentle on Charles’ hips but nevertheless Charles feels a small chill run down his spine, incongruous with the molten heat of arousal churning in his belly. “You have wings. I thought you didn’t smell human.”

“Excuse me?” Charles sputters indignantly. Him, smell?

Erik smirks up at him. “I have wings too.” Then his whole body _shifts_ , muscles rippling beneath Charles and a moment later Charles is staring down at the jagged horns protruding up out of Erik’s silky hair, and the pair of huge, leathery wings splayed out across the pillows behind Erik, five times the size of Charles’.

Erik isn’t a human, Charles realizes where he’s still perched precariously above Erik’s hard cock, Erik is a _dragon_.

 

 

“Shit,” he says, with feeling.

“This doesn’t have to change our evening’s itinerary,” Erik says, smoothing his thumb in a soothing circle around Charles’ hip bone. “I’m still interested if you are. _Highly_ interested.”

Charles makes a small frustrated noise, torn. He’s hungry, practically starving, but he needs a human if he actually wants to eat tonight. It’s a small but very annoying magical quirk, that he can’t sustain himself on the lust of other magical beings. He’d never had too much of a problem with the rule—before now, because come _on_. Dragon dick. He’s practically salivating just thinking about it. Plus, Raven will be so jealous she might actually go from blue to green.

And it means he’ll be able to keep Erik, and sleep with him as many times as he wants. Judging by the way Erik’s looking up at him right now, Charles might have already gotten himself added to the dragon’s horde as it is.

“I’ll need a human eventually,” Charles says at last, as dignified as he can. “But for now, we may proceed.”

“Excellent,” Erik purrs, and with another flex of his muscles he rolls them both over to pin Charles down against the sheets, settling all of his delicious, heavy heat on top of him, “I’m sure we can work out a deal that’s mutually beneficial for _both_ our interests.”

 


	28. Pokémon AU: To Be The Very Best, Part 1/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EPISODE ONE: Bye Mom**

 

It was a bright and sunny morning.

“Eat your breakfast.”

“ _Mom_.”

“No son of mine is going to start his adventure without breakfast!”

Erik slumps down further in his seat.  He is _never going to get out of this house_.

Edie takes pity on him and smiles, coming to lean over the back of his chair to survey his half-eaten plate with a thoughtful air.  “Tell you what.  How about…six more bites.  One for each member of the team you’ll have.  And then you can go.”

Erik shoves the remaining half of his pancake in his mouth all at once.  That’s got to count for six bites, right?  He scrambles sideways off the chair with a scrape.  “Bye Momph!”

Edie catches him by the top of his backpack before he can dash out of the house, stopping him in his tracks.  Ignoring his disgruntled sound, she turns him around so she can look at him, putting both hands on his cheeks.  “I’m proud of you,” she says with a smile, “your father would be proud too.”

Erik swallows his pancake.

“Have fun,” Edie continues, brushing his hair back off his forehead deftly, “and be _safe_.  You’re going to be a wonderful trainer, Erik.  Just remember that you can always come home, too.”  She leans down and kisses his forehead.

“ _Bye Mom_ ,” Erik says, a little embarrassed.  Hopefully no one is looking in the window.  He shrugs out of her hold and makes a beeline for the door, doing a mental checklist.  Backpack—check.  Running shoes—check.  Town map—check.

First Pokémon—soon.

He bangs out the front door into the fresh morning air, stepping out into the road.  A soft breeze blows.  The sun is still only halfway over the horizon.  The road is empty and open and is practically calling his name.  He’s ready.  He’s going to start his Pokémon adventure today.  And he’s going to be the  _best_.

Erik looks back at his mother, standing in the doorway of their home.  She smiles at him encouragingly, and Erik feels a sudden lump in his throat.

He quickly runs back over to her and flings his arms around her, hugging her tightly.  She laughs and hugs him back, one hand stroking his hair comfortingly.  “You’ll do just fine, my boy,” she tells him, and then lets go gently.  “Good luck,  _liebling_.”

Erik nods, stepping back.   _Now_ he’s ready.  He leaves his mother behind and takes off running down the road, towards his destiny—

—and trips in a pothole.

No one saw that, right?

He picks himself up, dusting himself off, and then keeps going.  Not everything’s going to be perfect, he reminds himself as he heads for the Lab in the center of town, but at least he can still have some fun.

He avoids other potholes, though.  Just by principle.

 


	29. Pokémon AU: To Be The Very Best, Part 2/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EPISODE 2: Are you a BOY or are you a GIRL?**

 

The Pokémon Lab is in the center of town, and had Erik ever stopped to think about it he may come to the realization that the Lab is the only reason there _is_ a town.  Pallet Town is small, so his journey is not a long one.

He reaches the Lab in record timing, hoping to be the first one there.  To his dismay, someone else is already waiting outside the entrance.  Well, at least no one’s been let inside yet, and Erik cheers a little when he realizes it’s his best friend Seb.

“Hi Seb,” Erik says, coming to a stop in front of him.  He toys with the straps of his backpack.  “Are we supposed to wait outside?”

“Hey.” Seb gives him a once-over.  He’s leaning against the side of the building, playing with his PokéGear, which Erik is a little jealous of.  He’s not even carrying a backpack.  “I guess.  This whole thing is sort of lame, isn’t it?”

Erik blinks in confusion.  “Weren’t you just saying last night that you couldn’t wait—”

“I changed my mind."  Seb stretches.  "I mean, they’re just going to give us a _baby_ Pokémon, right?  The cool ones won’t come till later.  Then it’ll be exciting.”

“Oh,” Erik says.  He hadn’t thought of it like that.  He supposes Seb is right.

“You were still excited, weren’t you?” Seb asks, eyes glinting.

“ _No_ ,” Erik lies harshly.

“Speaking of babies."  Seb smirks, looking past Erik.  "Look who it is.”

Erik turns to look.  Charles Xavier is coming up the road towards the Lab, lugging a satchel that looks like it weighs more than he does.  His clothes are neat and tidy, not at all like the Trainer Gear that Seb wears or Erik’s plain shirt and jeans—he looks more like he’s a school boy than a Trainer.

He beams at them as he joins them.  “Hi guys!"  He’s panting slightly, his satchel slipping off his shoulder to land on the ground with a thunk.  "Wonderful morning to start off, isn’t it?”

“They just let anyone become a Trainer these days, don’t they, Erik?” Seb says with an eye roll.

Charles’ smile falters slightly and Erik shifts on his feet uncertainly.  He knows Charles isn’t cool.  Seb says so.  But Charles has always been nice, hasn’t he?

“Hi Erik,” Charles greets him when Seb finally goes back to playing with his PokéGear.  “Do you know which Starter you’re going to pick?  I accidentally stayed up quite late researching them last night, and I think—”

“Yawn,” Seb says loudly without looking up.

Before Erik has to decide between not answering Charles and hurting his feelings or answering Charles and looking uncool in front of Seb, the door to the Lab bursts open and out steps the world’s leading expert on Pokémon.

“Hey! _You’re not in the tall grass, are you_?” Professor Oak squints out at them accusingly.

“No sir,” Charles reports cheerfully.

“Oh.  Good."  He seems to like this response.  "It’s dangerous out there, you can’t go alone!  You could get pregnant.  And die.”

They blink at him in shock.

“No, that’s not quite right, is it?” Oak mumbles to himself.  He clears his throat.  “Where was I?  Oh yes.  You!"  He brandishes a finger at Erik.  "Are you a BOY or are you a GIRL?”

“What,” Erik says.  He glances around nervously.  This is some kind of joke, right?

“Speak up, I’m old and can’t hear!”

“I’m, uh,” Erik says, dumbfounded, “a boy.”

Oak peers at him.  “Not very certain, are you?”

“I’m a boy,” Erik repeats firmly.

“Some Pokémon don’t have a gender,” Oak assures him, “so it’s quite alright to be—”

“I haven’t got all day,” Seb interrupts him, “are you going to give us our Pokémon or not?”

“Ah yes!” Oak suddenly flings an arm around Seb.  “This here is my grandson!  His name is…what is his name again?”

“I’m not,” Seb says as he tries to get out of the Professor’s hold, “your grandson.”

“His name, boy, what’s his name?” Oak demands, looking at Erik again.

Erik’s still not really sure what’s going on here.  “Uh—”

“That’s right!"  Oak sounds relieved.  "This is my grandson, Uh!  He’s been your rival since you were babies.”

Erik checks the ground for potholes and takes a step backwards.  Maybe there’s another Professor in a different town he can ask for a Starter.

“The world of Pokémon awaits!” Oak declares, finally releasing Seb.  “Now, step inside to choose your partner!  Wait—who are you?”

“Charles Xavier,” Charles answers at once, stepping forward with his hand outstretched, “a pleasure to meet you, sir.  I’m a big fan of your research on Butterfree phenotypes and the—”

“I’ll have to get out my Dex for this one, boys,” Oak says, surveying Charles with a frown, “this doesn’t look like a species I’ve ever encountered.”

Seb laughs at the look on Charles’ face as the smaller boy sputters.  “Just show me where I can get my Pokémon, old man, so I can get outta this town.”

“Inside, inside!” Oak ducks back through the door and Seb quickly follows, pushing in past both Erik and Charles to be the first one.

“After you, Erik,” Charles offers with a small smile, so Erik takes a deep breath and steps into the Lab.

 


	30. Pokémon AU: To Be The Very Best, Part 3/3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EPISODE 3: I choose you!**

 

The Lab is…surprisingly bland, Erik thinks.  At this point he’d almost been expecting lots of strange, bubbling concoctions and perhaps a body-shaped figure beneath a white sheet.  Instead it’s a standard-looking Lab—or at least what he imagines a standard-looking Lab would look like—except for the fact that it lacks one thing.

Pokémon.

There isn’t a single Pokémon in sight, which strikes him as a little odd.  Isn’t Professor Oak the world’s leading expert on Pokémon?  Surely there should be at _least_ a couple running around his Lab, right?

Erik trips over an empty Potion bottle and loses his train of thought.

“Now!"  Oak stands at the very back of the lab, so Erik hurries to catch up.  "Uh!  Questionable Boy!  ARE YOU READY?  Your adventure starts here!   _Pick a Pokémon_.”

“My name is not _uh_ ,” Seb snaps.

Erik wisely decides not to bring up the subject of his own name.

“Don’t forget me!” Charles says, popping up from behind Erik.

“Dontforgetme,” Oak muses, “what a strange call.”

Charles sighs.

“You go first, Erik,” Seb orders.

Erik blinks.  “What?  Are you sure?  I thought you wanted to go f—”

“I changed my mind,” Seb interrupts him impatiently, “so just do what I say.”

“Okay,” Erik says, rolling his eyes.  Seb is his friend and all, but sometimes he can get pretty bossy.  He steps forward, approaching an extremely fancy table that looks like it has no other purpose than to hold three Pokéballs.  He wonders what Oak does with it when all the Starters have been chosen.

“You know, it makes a really good cocktail bar,” Oak says, and Erik’s not really sure what that means.

His hand hovers over the three Pokéballs for a long moment.  In the background, Oak puts on an old record of dramatic, stressful music that endlessly repeats.  Seb leans forward, watching Erik with glinting eyes.  Charles looks about ready to burst with excitement.  Erik wonders if he remembered to make his bed this morning.

He grabs a Pokéball.

How _satisfying_.

In a single burst of bright light he unleashes his new partner into the room for everyone to see.  It’s orange.  It looks like a dinosaur.  Its tail is on fire.  It’s _awesome_.

“Charmander!” it cries.

“ARE YOU GOING TO NICKNAME YOUR CHARMANDER?” Oak demands immediately over the sound of his record player scratching demonically.

Erik ignores him in favor of couching down in front of his new Pokémon.  It blinks up at him with huge eyes.  He’d never be caught dead saying this aloud, but it’s _so cute_.  Erik holds out a hand and the little monster steps up to him, placing its paw in his palm, and Erik can’t help the huge grin that sweeps across his face.

“Congratulations, Erik!” Charles says in a rush with a bright smile.

“Then I want this one,” Seb says, snatching a Pokéball off the stand.  He tosses the ball high up in the air, releasing the Pokémon inside.

“Squirtle!"  A small blue turtle bounds forward, long curled tail waving.

"ARE YOU GOING TO NICKNAME—” loud record screech, “—YOUR SQUIRTLE?”

“Are you _stupid_ _?_ ” Seb sneers.

“Uh has nicknamed his Pokémon Stupid!” Oak announces.

“No I didn’t!”

“It is official now, my dear grandson!”

“I’m _not_ your grandson.”

“I guess that leaves Bulbasaur to me,” Charles says happily, picking up the third and final Pokéball.  He kneels down to greet his Pokémon after releasing it, laughing when the Grass-type shakes his hand with one vine.

Erik pushes himself back up to his feet, his Charmander tottering over to stand beside him.  Its head barely reaches his knee, and he can’t help but give it a small pat.  It lets out a happy sound, the little flame on the end of its tail burning a little brighter for a moment and Erik can’t stop another grin.  They’re going to be _unstoppable_.

“Remember, kids!” Oak says.  “Your adventure is what you make of it!  And don’t try to ride your Bike indoors.   _I will know_."  Fire burns in his eyes, his voice growing deep and unearthly.  Erik thinks that now is probably a good time to leave.

He turns to make his way back towards the Lab’s entrance, Charmander at his heels, but Seb calls after him, "Hey Erik, let’s test these little guys out."  When Erik looks back, his best friend is smirking.  "How about a battle?”

“Your eyes have met, you _have_ to battle now.” Oak says matter-of-factly.

“That seems like a silly rule,” Charles remarks.

“I think Dontforgetme knows Growl!” Oak says excitedly.

Charles sighs.

“C'mon, Erik,” Seb goads, eyes glittering, “unless you’re too scared.”

Erik grits his teeth.  “I’m not scared.”

“Good,” Seb says mockingly.  “I choose you, Squirtle.”

“Actually,” Oak says helpfully, “you mean Stupid.”

Erik doesn’t wait for the conversation to dissolve again.  He’s got a battle to win—his first one ever.  “Go, Charmander!”

 


	31. Werewolf AU: Erik keeps waking up naked in his neighbor's yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Lying in the grass**

 

“For god’s sake, not _again_ _!_ ”

“Shh, don’t wake him up!”

“No, honestly, Charles, this is getting ridiculous. I do _not_ need to walk outside the front door of my house and be bombarded with a 12-inch-long _dong_ on a regular basis!”

“It’s only once a month, Raven, and you know Erik was only bitten three months ago. Can you imagine what he’s going through? How hard it must be to adjust to being a werewolf? If the poor fellow ends up passing out in our front yard then I can’t really blame him.” A small pause. “Do you think he’s really 12 inches?”

“That’s _not the point_ , Charles. He can go pass out on his _own_ front lawn if he feels the need to show off his junk to the world.”

Erik cracks his eyes open blearily. Blue skies and bright sunshine greet him, nearly blinding him after a night of–well. It’s kind of hard to remember. He did a lot of running, he knows that much, flashes of trees and branches beneath a full moon trickling back to him slowly. At one point he thinks there was maybe a deer. Or at least he hopes it was a deer. Ugh, his head is killing him.

Someone crouches down beside him. “Good morning, Erik, it’s nice to see you again.”

Erik squints. Charles Xavier’s face swims into view above him, wearing a small, rueful smile. A little ways away, his sister Raven glares at Erik over Charles’ shoulder.

It is at this moment Erik realizes he’s lying stark naked on the Xavier’s front lawn, sprawled out in his regular human body with everything— _everything —_on display. “Uh,” he says, intelligently.

“Here,” Charles says, offering him a towel, “why don’t you come inside for some breakfast? You must be hungry after, um, last night.”

Erik quickly pulls the towel over his crotch, and thinks of the please-let-it-have-been-a-deer. “Actually, I’m, uh, not very hungry. But thanks. And…sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Charles says quickly, and then grins a little. “You are sincerely welcome to pass out on our front lawn any time you’d like. Really.”

“Oh,” Erik says, dimly aware of Raven throwing her hands up and stomping back inside the house. He thinks maybe he should be chagrined, or embarrassed, but in reality he really can’t stop staring at Charles’ blue eyes. “I’ll definitely keep that in mind.”

 


	32. Western AU 1: Charles needs Erik's help to navigate the wild west

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Combined Prompts:**
> 
> **Prompt 1: Windy day**
> 
> **Prompt 2: Stolen coat**
> 
> Based on Fassbender's movie _Slow West_.

 

Charles wakes to the wind.

He jolts up into a sitting position, shivering as the cold, relentless wind blows across him and the rest of the wide, flat plains, scouring the earth away little by little in its timeless bid to turn the world to dust. The fire, crackling so warm and merrily last night, is nothing but a small pile of smoldering coals at his feet, barely visible in the pale, early morning light trying to peek through the overcast of thick clouds in the sky.

He’s utterly alone. Werner, his odd little carriage, and Charles’ horse are nowhere to be seen.

Werner had seemed so kind last night, offering Charles a chair by his fire, bread for a meal, and even a blanket to sleep in for warmth. The blanket is now the only thing Charles has left aside from the clothes on his back—his horse, his supplies, even his _coat_ is gone, presumably stolen by Werner while Charles had slept on, completely oblivious and naively trusting. At least his wallet is safe, still tucked away deeply in Charles’ pocket, though what the 50 dollars inside will do for him out here in the middle of nowhere, Charles doesn’t know.

For a few long moments, all Charles can do is sit where he is in the dirt, despair threatening to cave in his chest. He’s hundreds of miles from the nearest point of civilization, and doesn’t even know where exactly he is. He’s defenseless and he has no food or water. He’s going to die out here, and his bones will be picked clean by vultures long before another soul even finds them.

Beside him, resting atop a fluttering piece of torn paper, is a single egg. Perhaps Werner thinks he’s funny, taking all of Charles’ things but still leaving him the egg he’d promised Charles for breakfast. Charles is too hungry to care, snatching the egg up in one hand and lunging for the paper but missing it when the wind takes it. He stumbles up to his feet, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, running after the paper and grabbing it at last when it catches on a small clump of weeds.

On the paper is a large arrow pointing in one direction. Underneath it in large block letters is the word **WEST**. It’s useless now. Charles has no idea which way the arrow was originally pointing, and he throws the paper away in disgust. The wind takes it again, and he’s fairly sure it’ll blow all the way to the ocean this time.

At least he still has the egg. Charles cracks it open with his fingers, only to recoil when the gooey, pale yolk drops down into the dirt. Uncooked.

Swallowing his bitterness, Charles hikes his blanket up higher around himself, turns to face the opposite horizon from where he thinks the sun is rising, and begins to walk. He’ll walk until he can’t anymore, he decides, because then at least they’ll say he never gave up.

This is how Erik finds him hours later, casually riding up from behind Charles on his horse, Charles’ horse following along behind him on a short lead. All of Charles’ things are piled in the saddlebags. Charles stares for a few moments, lips chapped and head spinning slightly with dehydration, wondering if this is some kind of mirage.

“Want a biscuit,” Erik says, and chucks one at him. Charles fumbles to catch it, nearly dropping it before he stuffs it quickly into his mouth, chewing hard. Erik watches him eat with that level, impenetrable gaze, unblinking. He doesn’t say anything about how Charles snuck away from him yesterday morning, nor does he particularly look like he cares.

Charles digs out his wallet and pulls out all 50 dollars, the very last of his crumpled bills, and holds them out to Erik. “Just get me to where I want to go.”

For a moment, Erik looks like he actually might smile. He takes the bills and tucks them away, eyes never leaving Charles’ face. “Sure thing.”

“Did you kill him?” Charles asks after a small pause, nodding at his horse. Erik’s obviously encountered Werner if he’s brought Charles’ horse back. Charles is unsure how he feels about it, even if Werner did leave him to die.

Erik stares at him for another few long moments, which is answer enough. “Come on,” he says eventually, tossing Charles the lead to his horse, “let’s drift.”

 


	33. Royalty AU: Prince Charles of Westchester marries Prince Erik of Genosha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Tripped down stairs**

 

Charles thinks he might be sweating enough to fuel entire rivers throughout the entire ceremony, though if Erik notices how slippery Charles’ palms are when they turn to face one another and grasp hands he at least has the good grace not to show it. The celebrant drones on and on, his nasally voice echoing slightly in the high-vaulted ceiling of the room and projecting out across the people gathered below, but all Charles can think about is how much he wishes this were already over.

It’s not that he’s unhappy to be marrying Erik—he’s ecstatic, over the moon with elation to be finally sealing their bond. He loves Erik with an intensity he’s sure would scare him if he ever had a moment to slow down and take it in, their courtship a whirlwind of spark-meets-tinder from the very first moment they laid eyes on each other.

Their royal union will also bond Genosha and Westchester irrevocably together, smoothing out any lingering remnants of political tensions and opening an entire new world of trade that will boost each of their respective economies for generations to come. Peace and prosperity are on the horizon, and if the price Charles has to pay is merely adding to his own personal happiness, then it’s hardly a price at all.

Only he’s been up since before dawn and hasn’t eaten since midday yesterday and has spent hours upon hours of having all kinds of hands poking and prodding at him to prepare him for the ceremony and he’d _really_ like to sit down now only these traditional, ceremonial robes don’t allow much room for breathing, let alone sitting. He tries to keep his knees slightly bent to avoid passing out entirely but it’s hard to keep his posture perfect at the same time, and he doesn’t want it to be reported he was slouching through his entire wedding.

Erik must see some kind of cry for help in his eyes because he stroke his thumb gently across the back of Charles’ hand, the corners of his lips quirking up just enough to give Charles a small, encouraging smile. Erik’s looked a little strained all morning too, so Charles gives his hand a swift squeeze. This will all definitely be worth it, especially later tonight when they can help peel each other out of these cumbersome garments.

At long last, the celebrant is done speaking and Charles is leaning in to kiss Erik—not for the first time, even though it’s technically _supposed_ to be their first, and the thought of their shared secret makes him smile into the kiss—and then they’re turning to face the court below and present themselves to their guests as a married couple at last. Charles’ legs feel a little like jelly as they stand listening to the sound of applause, but Erik’s grip on his hand is tight and unfailing.

Together, with the same ease they rehearsed with the day before yesterday, they begin to descend down the stairs. From here they’ll make their way through the parted crowd and out into hallway, and head straight for the banquet hall so the wedding feast can begin. Charles concentrates on putting one foot down in front of the other, keeping his shoulders straight and even.

He’ll never know for certain which one of them trips first. Delegates from Westchester will claim it was Erik, while the Genoshans will stoutly declare it was Charles. All Charles knows is that one moment he’s still halfway down the stairs, and the next he’s pitching forward into empty air, Erik tugging frantically on his hand as they’re both sent tumbling down the rest of the steps to land with surprising coordination, sprawled out side-by-side on the very bottom step.

There’s a moment of utter silence, all of their guests staring at them in shock. Charles doesn’t know if there’s any possible way for them to gracefully recover from this, his face already beginning to warm.

And then it’s broken by Erik—Erik, who keeps up such a stern, aloof figure to the public—who throws back his head and laughs into the silence, leaning back against the the stairs and grinning so widely, so clearly _happy_ not even public embarrassment can ruin his mood. Charles has to join in, because it _is_ rather funny, his smile so large his cheeks begin to hurt, and then the whole rest of the crowd is laughing too, and someone starts applauding and then there’s cheering as Charles reaches over to take Erik’s face between his hands and kisses him again, and again, and again.

 


	34. Assassin AU: Charles and Erik aren't about to let a faulty elevator ruin their plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Stuck in an elevator**

 

“This wasn’t part of the plan,” Charles hisses as soon as the lights flicker out and the elevator comes to an ominous, jarring halt. He drops down to one knee with a soft thump and begins to disassemble his gun again, fingers working by muscle memory on a familiar, repetitious process.

“You think I don’t know that?” Erik snaps back somewhere overhead and to the left. Charles hears him take a step forward and tap on the sealed doors with the muzzle of his gun. “I could pry these open, but we’re probably between floors.”

Charles shoves the pieces of his gun into his duffel, and then reaches over to bat at Erik’s leg. Erik hands his gun down to him, handle first, and Charles gets to work disassembling it too. He doesn’t know Erik’s gun as well as he knows his own, but he knows it well enough to get the job done. “Someone sold us out. No one should know we’re here tonight.”

“Hank,” Erik says at once.

“It is not Hank,” Charles says, mildly affronted. “Hank is an old friend, he’d never sell me out.”

“Never say never,” Erik mutters. Louder, he says, “You know that _friend_ is a very, very loose term in our world.”

Finished with Erik’s gun, Charles carefully stows the pieces in a separate pouch of the duffel, and then pushes himself back up to his feet, reaching out into the dark until he finds Erik’s shoulder, sidling over to stand beside him. “I’ve been in the business just as long as you have,” he points out, “I’m not as naive as you like to think I am.”

There’s a small pause as Erik absorbs that. “You know,” he says, deliberately casual, “if this were a movie, this is the part where we have hot, kinky elevator sex.”

Charles sputters. “A _porno_ maybe, not an actual movie.”

“Jason Bourne never had sex in an elevator?” Even in the dark, Charles can _hear_ Erik’s shit-eating grin. “Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible? James Bond?”

“Erik,” Charles says slowly, “did you get the ideas for our plan to get into this building from a movie?”

“ _No_ ,” Erik says, a little too quickly.

Charles rolls his eyes, even though it’s doubtful Erik can see it. “Just boost me up. If we’re going by the movies, there should be a panel in the ceiling we can lift so we can climb up out of the top.”

“Everything went off without a hitch so far, didn’t it?” Erik demands even as he kneels down. He pats Charles’ knee and Charles carefully lifts his foot to fit it into Erik’s cupped hands. “Even the pizza delivery part, which even _you_ have to admit was genius.”

“I thought it was ridiculous,” Charles says, and then nearly pitches forward over Erik’s shoulder as Erik lifts him up before catching himself on the nearby wall. “I should’ve known it was _Hollywood_ -ridiculous.”

“One tiny snag and everyone becomes a critic,” Erik grumbles. “You feel anything yet?”

“I’m looking…” Charles feels carefully along the ceiling with his fingertips, searching for the telltale cracks of an escape hatch. “Got it. Huh. You _were_ right.”

“See,” Erik says smugly as Charles pops the panel out of place, “this is going to work.”

“Oh shut up,” Charles answers, pulling himself up through the hatch, “we’ve got a long climb ahead if we’re still going to take out Shaw tonight.”

“Of course we are,” Erik says, tossing the duffel up to him, “and then we’re going home and having hot, kinky celebratory sex.”

“If you say so,” Charles says dryly.

“It’s all part of the plan, Charles,” Erik says, hoisting himself up and joining him on the roof of the elevator, wearing another ridiculous grin Charles can’t help but return, “all part of the plan.”

 


	35. Mermaid AU: Charles brings Erik freshly picked flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Fresh picked flowers**
> 
> With thanks to **Thacmis** for the adorable art! :3

 

“This is…ah…nice,” Erik says awkwardly.

Charles beams up at him. His long, graceful tail flips up out of the water, fan-like fin hitting the surface with a loud _slap_ , which Erik has learned is an expression for happiness or excitement.

It makes Erik feel bad, because he has no idea what he’s supposed to do with the small bundle of long sticks of driftwood and fragments of what he thinks is staghorn coral. Charles had presented it to him so proudly, the spiky little fins behind each of his ears fluttering hopefully as he waited for Erik’s reaction.

It’s been a slow but steady process of learning to communicate, with a lot of trial and error. Erik had discovered Charles last week near the same tide pool they sit by now, Erik with his shoes off, legs and feet dangling off the flat rock into the cool ocean water, and Charles resting against the ledge, propped up on his forearms and elbows.

Charles had been hopelessly tangled in an old fisherman’s net, trapped and drying quickly in the unforgiving sun. It’d only taken quick work with Erik’s pocketknife to free him, and once Charles had flipped himself off the rocks and back into the water, Erik had assumed that would be that. He’d never see the mermaid again, and would be left wondering if he hadn’t had some kind of strange hallucination instead.

Only Charles had come back. It’d take him a couple days to trust Erik enough to come close, but now Erik walks out to the shore every morning to find Charles already waiting for him, eager to learn more. He’s devoured the books Erik’s brought him, and while his vocal chords don’t seem to be formed well enough for speech–figuring out what name to call Charles had been a marathon of effort one afternoon–they’ve gotten very good at interpreting each other.

“What is this for?” Erik asks slowly, wincing a little. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

Charles huffs out a small sigh, giving Erik a fondly exasperated look. It’s strange, or perhaps not so strange at all, how human Charles is. He pushes himself off the rocks and swims in a small arc, twisting around and coming to a stop right in front of Erik, lifting one hand up out of the water and placing it on his knee.

“Charles…” Erik knows what he wants. Charles has been trying to persuade Erik to get into the water with him for the better part of the last three days, never forceful or outright attempting to drag Erik in–and he certainly could, it’s obvious Charles is far stronger than Erik is–but quietly insistent all the same. Erik’s not sure what’s holding him back, other than an old childhood fear of drowning. He wants to trust Charles. He _does_ trust Charles.

Charles smiles at him again, patting his knee and reaching up with his other hand to gently grasp Erik’s arm, giving him a small tug.

“Alright,” Erik says, a little shakily, “alright.”

Slowly he lets Charles draw him down into the cool, salty water, putting a hand on Charles’ broad shoulder once he’s slipped entirely off the ledge of rock. Charles keeps both their heads above the surface, patiently allowing Erik to get a grip on himself and adjust. When Erik gives him a terse nod, Charles slowly begins to submerge them, sinking down below the surface together and allowing Erik plenty of time to take a deep breath.

Erik keeps his eyes instinctively closed at first until he feels Charles stroke his cheek. He opens them carefully, the sting of saltwater biting at first before fading away. Charles is ethereal underwater, beams of sunlight filtering down below and dancing across his face, his curly hair waving gently in the current. He beams at Erik again, and nods to Erik’s other hand.

Following his gaze, Erik discovers he’s still holding onto the bundle of driftwood and coral. Now that they’re beneath the waves, the bundle has come alive–sea anemones have opened, unfurling from holes in the coral like petals, while the barnacles on the driftwood have gone from dark to a vibrant array of colors, lighting up as the ocean breathes life into them once more.

“See, Erik,” Charles says delightedly, his voice crystal clear here below the waves, “I brought you flowers.”

 

 


	36. Harry Potter AU 1: Erik's wand misfires just as he's finally gotten to kiss Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Caught in the rain**

 

Erik has envisioned this moment for the better part of the term now, and at first it goes just as perfectly as he’d hoped.

They have the whole Gryffindor common room to themselves. Most of his housemates have gone home for the Christmas holidays, and those few that have remained are outside taking advantage of their free time. He’s managed to coax Charles away from the library to study here instead–the Fat Lady is currently getting drunk with her friend Violet and hadn’t blinked at the green hem on Charles’ robes, if she even noticed at all, and earlier Erik had snuck down to the kitchens and asked the House Elves for a tray of snacks. He and Charles have spent all afternoon picking at sweets and sipping pumpkin juice in front of the fire, their textbooks and parchment scrolls spread out across two of the tables.

Their homework has been abandoned for the better part of ten minutes now in favor of making out, sprawled out luxuriously on the soft rug in front of the hearth. Erik has wanted to kiss Charles for months now, and happily Charles seems to share the sentiment, going by the way he’s currently sucking on Erik’s tongue, hands tangled in Erik’s hair. Erik feels drunk on Charles and hormones and the still half-stunned-disbelief-but-bordering-on-exhilaration that he’s actually  _finally kissing_ Charles and Charles is _kissing him back_ , the heat of the fire and Charles’ body beneath his making Erik feel heavy and languid.

He shifts an elbow to keep his arm from falling asleep, thinking about how to phrase a suggestion to maybe ditch their robes for starters, and accidentally knocks into his wand where it lies nearby, abandoned on the carpet. It goes off with a loud _BANG_ , and a split second later they both yelp as ice cold rain begins pouring down on them, instantly soaking them to the bone.

“My essay!” Charles shrieks, scrambling out from beneath Erik and up off the floor towards the tables, nearly tripping over himself in haste.

Cursing, Erik stumbles after him, and they spend a few frantic moments attempting to gather up all their things only to find there’s nowhere to put them–the entire common room is being rained on, all the cushy chairs and tables sopping wet, and water is beginning to puddle on the floor since there’s nowhere for it to drain. Erik’s Herbology and Transfiguration textbooks are utterly ruined, and Charles’ Muggle Studies essay, previously 15 inches long, now resembles nothing more than a large, blurry smear of ink.

“What’s the counter-charm for rain?!” Erik demands, yanking a footrest over and shoving it underneath the table to pile some of their stuff on. Now that the initial shock is over, he’s angry—he’s just sabotaged _himself_ , and probably ruined any further chances of getting Charles to go out with him.

To his surprise, Charles starts to laugh. His robe is drenched, green tie staining his white undershirt and hair plastered down against his head, but his eyes are shining. “I should know the spell,” he admits, in between more laughter, “but I honestly can’t for the life of me remember it right now. You should’ve seen your  _face_ when it first started, though—” He has to break off when he bursts out laughing again, lifting one hand up to his mouth.

“Think harder,” Erik grumbles, still annoyed with himself, but at least Charles doesn’t appear to be upset. “We’re going to die of exposure at this rate.”

“It’ll come to me,” Charles promises, though he still sounds amused and wholly unconcerned.

Before Erik can protest, Charles pulls Erik down into another kiss, heedless of the rain and picking up right where they left off, and Erik supposes while it’s not _exactly_ as planned, it’ll certainly do.

 


	37. Law Enforcement AU: Detective!Erik isn't happy when FBI!Charles shows up at his crime scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Back of a library**
> 
> This one in essence is being developed into a full-length fic! ;)

 

“What is _he_ doing here?” Erik demands loudly as soon as Charles rounds the corner, ducking his stupid fluffy head under the fluttering police tape. All of the other officers milling about look over to see what the commotion is, but none of them have an answer to give. Typical.

“Senior Special Agent Charles Xavier, FBI,” Charles announces, striding over and flashing everyone his stupid shiny badge. “And Detective Lehnsherr, how wonderful to see you! I’m here because I was told there was a body ’round back of the library and I’ve come to do my job.”

“What do the Feds want?” Erik asks bluntly, unmoved even in the face of one of Charles’ megawatt grins. He folds his arms, keeping himself planted directly in between Charles and the body, and thanks to the several inches worth of height he has on Charles, Erik might as well be a wall. “Bit local, don’t you think?”

“I’m not here to start a pissing contest over territory,” Charles says calmly, still smiling at him. It’s almost annoying. “I don’t want to steal a case from you, but I might not have a choice. You know how my superiors are, and this is the second body you’ve found behind a library this month. They’re already whispering ‘serial killer.’ Now, can I take a look at the body, please? Preferably before the press gets here?”

“Yeah, can you imagine the headlines tomorrow?” one of the forensics interns butts in. “ _Chapter Two of A Real Page-Turner!_ ”

“Thank you, Mr. Cassidy,” Erik says through his teeth, still staring hard at Charles. Fortunately the intern has the good sense to go back to taking pictures of John Doe. “We’re not done arguing about this.”

“I would never assume we’re ever done arguing about anything,” Charles answers dryly, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. “We’re still on for dinner tonight, yes?”

“Six o’clock at the Italian place,” Erik growls as Charles brushes gently past him, “and if you’re late because you’re too busy going through the paperwork for _my_ case, you’re on the couch tonight.”

Charles waves over his shoulder, already crouching down next to the body. Stupid meddling feds. Erik stomps away to go get a coffee from the little shop at the front of the library, but not before sparing a few moments to check out his husband’s ass. Priorities, and all that.

 


	38. Three Sentence Prompt Meme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Three Sentence Prompts**
> 
> These are from a tumblr meme where people sent in any prompt they wanted, and I could only answer with three sentences.

**Prompt: IN SPACE**

And with the ship coasting steadily, borne forward by the last of the shock waves that managed to blow through the open wormhole before the door slipped shut, Charles brings himself down into a controlled crash-landing, tumbling straight into Erik’s waiting arms with a delighted laugh and a shared smile between them; a quiet private moment amongst the relieved cheering of the rest of their companions celebrating making it off the planet alive.

Erik pulls him closer, using his superior height to lift Charles up as he crushes them together, fingers curling beneath Charles’ chin to tilt his head back, saying, “Look at you, glowing like a solar fire.” He smiles when Charles flushes, his thumb tracing Charles’ jawline softly, and adds with every single ounce of his quiet, steadfast conviction that had made Charles love him from the start, “You’re something special, Charles—you’re going to rattle the stars, you are.”

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: knitting circle AU**

“It’s not fair,” Alex mutters to Raven as Erik presents a navy blue cardigan to Charles, “the bastard probably cheated and used his powers.”

“Not like Charles will call him on it,” Raven says sourly, though her hands are gentle as she twists the knitted hat from Hank back and forth, “he’ll just go on and on about how it’s perfect practice for finer control or something ridiculous.”

“Speaking of ridiculous,” Alex says, eyebrows raised, as Charles pulls out an _entire cape_ for Erik, and Raven decides on the spot that she’s boycotting the knitting circle as well as all other _group activities that will be fun, Raven_ until further notice.

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: Alice in Wonderland AU**

Chipped teacups on cracked plates are scattered at random across the wide span of the rickety, wobbling banquet table and Erik counts at least fifteen different cakes and pastries of all shapes and sizes and colors before he loses track, distracted by three different pots of tea bubbling over onto the stained tablecloth made of five different fabrics barely stitched together but mostly by the man who sits alone at the head of the table, with his ratty, patched jacket and tall black top hat perched jauntily on his head, grinning just a little madly as he gestures at the table and looks at Erik with huge blue eyes that might fracture into galaxies of riddles under just the right light.

“You could stay, you know,” he says, and laughs a little when a small mouse pokes its head out of another teapot to twitch its whiskers at Erik, “it may be a dream, but you’d have to be half-mad to dream me up so you’d fit right in.”

Erik can’t help but smile, hopelessly fond as he answers, “What an idea—what a mad, crazy, wonderful idea,” before he shakes his head wistfully, thinking perhaps he’ll never really know why a raven is like a writing desk, and adds, “but I can’t.”

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: Super 8/E.T/sci-fi about kids and aliens AU**

“No, no, you’ve gotta come see,” Charles insists, tugging on Erik’s hand, so Erik allows himself to be towed inside and up the stairs and down the hall and into Charles’ bedroom, “there’s a reason why I skipped school today, but you’re not gonna believe me until I show you.”

“Charles—” Erik begins crossly, and then stops when he sees the small blue girl curled in the center of Charles’ tall bed, blinking at him with inquisitive yellow eyes before breaking into a wide grin as Charles lets go of Erik’s hand to climb up onto the bed beside her, bouncing them both with his palpable excitement.

“Her ship crashed in the field next door last night and I couldn’t leave her out there alone,” Charles explains in a rush, taking the blue girl’s hand with an encouraging smile before looking back to Erik hopefully, and Erik blinks once to get over his shock and says, “ _Cool_.”

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: "rival" hosts of the mutant equivalents of the colbert report and the daily show**

“We have a special guest on the line today, folks,” Erik announces, already unable to keep the shark-like grin off his face because he knows what’s coming, “let’s put him on, shall we?”

The studio audience erupts into wild applause and cheering with a few extra wolf whistles thrown in as Charles pops up on the screen, taking one long, exaggerated sip from his trademark cup of tea and looking up through his eyelashes with a smirk of his own, the very same one that turns Erik’s insides into jelly every single time.

“Hello, darling,” Charles practically purrs, lowering his cup and setting it aside while leaning forward invitingly across his own news desk towards the camera, “so about that new policy Stryker thinks he can pass, hm?”

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: Cynical Charles AU/Charles sides with Erik Alt. Ending (is this cheating?)**

Erik sharpens his gaze and lifts one hand, bringing all the missiles in the air to a dead halt above them, floating weightlessly over the bay and gleaming in the sunlight, all of their deadly potential energy under his command now—perhaps _this_ is how Shaw felt—and it’s a small matter to swivel them on the spot and rotate them all back around to face the way they’d come from, back towards the ships and the bloodthirsty, marauding humans who’d sent them out in the first place.

“Erik,” Charles starts to speak beside him but Erik interrupts him, saying, “I told you they would turn on us, Charles,” and prepares to unclench his fist and let all the missiles loose against the neanderthals who dared to stand against them.

“My friend, what I mean is,” Charles says softly, placing one hand on Erik’s arm while his other rests against his temple, terrible blue eyes reflecting both the sea and sky as he looks out across the water at the ships, “you don’t have to blow them up—they’re already dead.”

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: charles is a unicorn, erik is a maiden**

It comes to a face-off, Erik crouched and tensed on the bank of the stream, silently cursing himself in his head for letting his guard down and letting that _thing_ sneak up on him without his noticing when he’d stopped to take a drink—he’d already rescued himself from the castle, thank you very much, and he doesn’t need anymore strange mythical creatures in his life—while it stares back, idly chewing on a long stalk of grass.

“I don’t want or need your help,” he says loudly, in hopes that it will get the hint and go away.

_Oh but my friend_ , the unicorn says, directly into his head as it swishes its tail with a nearly palpable air of great satisfaction and its pointed, spiraled horn glints in the sunlight, _you’re_ **_exactly_ ** _my type._

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: Elizabethan rival playwrights, like Will Shakespeare and Kit Marlowe**

Parchment lies spread out across the writing desk in messy stacks, covered from top to bottom in the same tiny, messy scrawl and various sizes of ink blots, ignored for now in the dim flickering light of the candle that has burned down low enough to threaten the papers and all they contain with spilled hot wax.

In the bed across the room, Charles curls in closer to Erik and traces his face with soft, deft fingertips, memorizing every last inch of him and ingraining the details he already knows by heart further into memory because he could write entire plays on what Erik means to him and how Erik makes him feel, and murmurs, “You shouldn’t have to give yourself up, they’ve given no real reason as to why they’re arresting you,” the silent _don’t go, don’t leave me_ left unspoken.

“They’ve seen what I’ve written,” Erik answers cryptically, for he could mean anything by that, even his latest manuscript that he’s been pouring himself into for the past few weeks and refuses to let Charles read it, and though he sounds impassive and unconcerned, the way his grip tightens on Charles betrays him, “and I mean to stand by my own words.”

 

* * *

 

  **Prompt: everyone's a single-cell organism**

“Phagocytosis,” Hank explains, waving two arms of his membrane around—albeit slowly—in the way that means he’s excited about what he’s talking about, “or cell-eat-cell: it’s how we amoebas absorb food.”

“Really,” Raven says skeptically as they continue to look on as across the petri dish, the other amoeba jerks the Paramecium it holds in its grasp back and forth against its cell membrane, while the Paramecium wiggles its cilia happily.  “Somehow I don’t think that’s what they’re doing.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See a super fun (!!) and truly amazing gif by **4xontuesdays** [here](http://pangeasplits.tumblr.com/post/49487957217/urstruly-pangeasplits-because-mimo-and) for the single-cell organism prompt!


	39. The Donut AU: Jam!Erik fills up Donut!Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: Charles is a donut, Erik is jam. Cue jokes about filling holes.**

 

Charles is still warm when it happens.

He is the fluffiest of the batch, his dough soft and cushy, his shape perfectly round.  He holds still, puffed up with pride, as he’s lightly dusted with powdered sugar.  When he’s put on a cooling rack, he’s placed front and center because he is exemplary.

He cools a little as his fellows are treated likewise, joining him one by one on the rack, but he’s still warm when he’s picked up again, and gives a little jolt when something long and tubular pokes gently into his side, entering him slowly.  He quivers as something cool and slick oozes into him, filling him to the brim.

 _My name is Erik_ , says the jam as it expands within him.

 _Oh, Erik_ , Charles answers with a moan, _you fill me up whole._

 _It is_ , Erik says very, very seriously, _my hole-y duty._

 


	40. Window washer!Erik's favorite client is Charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: I think Charles is the type of person who lounges around naked all the time in his apartment, which isn't a problem for anyone except Erik who almost falls to his death one day when he's windowcleaning because holy fuck does that guy have Mjolnir between his thighs or what because Erik sure feels thunderstruck. Little does he know Charles purposefully leaves the blinds open for sexy windowcleaner guy. Charles also writes cute messages on the windows. Or just masturbate. That too.**

 

Erik lowers his metal grate platform down with his powers, water sloshing gently in his buckets and making his squeegees tap lightly against the sides. The breeze is crisp today, cold air buffeting him as he carefully keeps his platform from knocking against the tall glass windows that make up the entire outside of the building he’s hanging off of, granting nothing less but full panoramic views for the city’s wealthiest citizens.

He gets himself situated in front of the first set of windows, making sure his cable cords are taut and secure. The top floor penthouse apartment is his favorite unit to clean, solely because of the fact that its extremely hot inhabitant is fond of walking around completely naked and completely heedless of Erik’s staring eyes. Erik would feel more creepy about it, except—he _knows_ the guy knows he’s there. It’s hard to miss a window washer who spends at least 45 minutes every Tuesday circling the outside of your apartment to clean your windows. Clearly he likes putting on a show, and Erik’s not about to turn this one down.

Today, however, when Erik draws his soapy squeegee down the face of the glass to leave a glistening wet trail of clean window and then refocuses his gaze so he can peer inside, he nearly sends himself plunging all thirty floors straight down to the ground when he catches sight of his favorite customer.

The man lounges back on his wide, expansive couch just a few feet from the glass, completely nude as always, and Erik isn’t shy about how he rakes his gaze down the man’s broad shoulders, dusted with freckles that Erik wants very badly to trace with his tongue, following them down the man’s compact chest that tapers down to a trim waist. What is different about today is how the man’s powerful thighs—that Erik has imagined more than once wrapped around his own hips—are splayed out wide, feet planted flat on the cushions to give Erik a full view of his clenching hole, a perfect little pucker that Erik feels his mouth begin to water just looking at it, while the man grips his thick cock in one hand and thrusts his hips up off the cushion as he fucks up into his own grip.

Erik’s pretty sure he’s just accidentally bent his longer squeegee pole in half, suddenly rock hard in his pants. The man’s head is thrown back in ecstasy, Erik’s eyes tracking across the elegant line of his pale throat that’s ideal for sucking bite marks into, before dropping back down to watch his balls draw up tight against his ass, teasing hole clenching open-shut, open-shut with every upward thrust, and Erik has never wished more for his powers to deal with glass instead of metal, if only so he could get through the window barrier between them and sink down into what he imagines must be perfect, velvety wet heat.

The man lifts his head, craning his neck upwards so he can look up and meet Erik’s gaze in a flash of blue, staring straight at Erik as he thumbs the slit of his cock and then his mouth is dropping open, letting out a cry that’s silent behind the glass as his hips judder and white streaks of come splatter up his stomach and chest. Erik is leaning so far forward now that his nose is in danger of pressing up against the glass like a little kid in front of a candy shop but he doesn’t even care, drinking in every last second of the man’s orgasm and committing it to memory because he’ll be able to get himself off on this for months.

Once he’s spent himself completely, the man takes a moment to lie where he is dazedly, feet sliding down so that his legs lay flat. Erik watches him let his flaccid cock slip limply from his hand and imagines what it would taste like, to lap up the remains of come from its fat head until the man was moaning beneath him, ready for a round two.

Blue Eyes hoists himself up to his feet, legs a little shaky as he takes the three steps necessary to bring himself right up to the glass. Erik swallows dry as the man leans in, parting those sinfully red lips that Erik has an entire myriad of fantasies about to huff a long breath against the glass, fogging up the window between them. He reaches up with his clean hand that isn’t sticky with come and with surprising accuracy writes a 7-digit number backwards on the glass so that it’s forwards for Erik to read from the outside.

 _I’m Charles_ , a voice just as crisp as the breezes says directly into Erik’s head, followed by the phantom press of lips against the corner of Erik’s mouth while Blue Eyes smiles, smugly pleased with himself, _call me_.

 


	41. Western AU 2: Ranch owner!Charles convinces ranch hand!Erik to stay for another season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: In some of them stills from the slow west trailer it looks like ranch hand!erik getting a blowjob from ranch owner!charles or something**

 

Erik slumps against the wall, head knocking back on the wood with a dull thunk as he shuts his eyes, helplessly overcome. His legs feel like jelly, sprawled out limply in the dry, dusty dirt, and he puffs out a breathless gasp of air, chest heaving with it, as Charles does something exquisite with his tongue again.

Cracking his eyes open, Erik looks down through his eyelashes at the top of Charles’ hair, those brown curls matted down with sweat and covered in a fine layer of dust. Everything is dusty out here. Erik thinks he might be partially made of dust, having breathed so much of it into his lungs and soaked up so many saturated particles of it through his skin while sweating through the workday. He wonders if it’ll make it easier for him to crumble, like a kicked anthill, when Charles takes him apart.

Charles, who bobs his head up and down torturously slow, sinfully red lips wrapped tightly around Erik’s cock. He straddles one of Erik’s long legs, crisp trousers stained with dirt where his knees dig into the ground as he rocks back and forth, rubbing the hot, heavy bulge in the front of his trousers against Erik’s thigh in time with the way he goes down on Erik’s cock. Erik groans lightly when Charles’ throat flutters around him, and he feels Charles’ fingers tighten their grip on his waist.

Erik wants badly to thrust up into that wet, perfect heat, but there’s something inherently satisfying about just sitting back and allowing Charles to do as he pleases, heated from the inside out for reasons other than the hot sun overhead. He has a thousand chores to complete by the time that sun sinks down below the endless, flat horizon tonight but Erik can’t think of any that are more important than being exactly where he is right now, tucked away into the shade with Charles sucking his cock like it’s his last meal on earth.

He moans when he comes, lips starting to curl up in what might be a grin or a grimace from the rush of pleasure that travels all the way up his spine, hips jerking weakly in Charles’ firm hold. Charles swallows him all down, slurping noisily and breathing harshly through his nose, and the sounds alone are enough for Erik’s cock to give another valiant twitch in arousal.

Charles licks him clean, and Erik can only watch, dazed, as impeccably-mannered Charles laps at his cock until it shines with his spit before sitting back on his haunches, still straddling Erik’s leg and licking red lips with a smile. “So,” he asks, and Erik wants to tear open every last button of that neat, white shirt of his, “will you stay on for another season?”

Erik has to huff out another laugh, lifting one leaden arm to deftly brush a sticky curl off of Charles’ forehead. “I can think of one or two reasons to stay, yeah.”

 


	42. 007 AU: Casino Royale - Bond!Charles and Vesper!Erik make a gamble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: James Bond AU**
> 
> Co-written with **ikeracity** , and posted here with her permission!

 

The game would be over in less than a minute if Charles was allowed access to his telepathy, but then there wouldn’t be much point in the game to begin with. The inhibitor bracelet weighs heavy on his wrist as he slides his arm forward across the table to accept his hand of cards from the dealer, tipping Shaw a bright smile as he flips his cards up for a split second to assess them.

Across the room at the bar, Moira nurses her drink while pretending to not be watching everything going on at the wide, round table where the poker game is taking place. For a CIA agent she’s doing a rather sloppy job of not appearing totally invested, but Charles supposes she can be forgiven on the account that she’s had her agency stake a lot on him. He’s already lost his initial stake in the game on a very unfortunate misplayed hand, and she’s posted the $5 million for him to continue playing—all on the promise that when Charles wins, she and her American friends get custody of Shaw.

Charles doesn’t care one way or another how Shaw is dealt with, only that he’s stopped. That’s all M has asked of him, and he isn’t about to let her down. He knows he can still win this game, despite a certain _someone’s_ skepticism.

A certain someone who is sliding into the room at long last, his black tux stark against the bright opulence of the room. Erik’s entrance is supposed to be a distraction for Shaw to indulge in, but Charles finds his own eyes glued to Erik’s as he glides across the room, all liquid grace and poise that probably shouldn’t belong to someone who claims to be a simple treasury agent and who had stoutly refused to give Charles the $5 million buy-in after his first loss.

Erik circles around the table, prowling like a panther until he’s right beside Charles’ chair. Charles allows a faint smirk to show on his face as he tips his head up lazily to openly admire him. “Evening, darling.”

Erik looks like he wants to roll his eyes and is only just barely refraining, and then he surprises Charles by leaning down and claiming his lips in a deep, positively delicious kiss, right here at the table in front of all of his opponents, including Shaw. Charles is caught so unaware that his lips actually part with a small, muffled sound and Erik takes the opportunity to snake his tongue into Charles’ mouth, licking at him filthily before pulling back just as abruptly as he’d come.

“Good luck, darling,” Erik murmurs, smirking down at Charles’ mildly indignant expression before he slides over towards the bar to join Moira.

Charles clears his throat as he turns back towards the table where his opponents all watch him with equally stony expressions, Shaw’s face a mix of annoyance and—oh, how quaint, is that _jealousy?_

Charles picks up his martini glass by the delicate stem and lifts it up in a small toast with a winning smile before downing the drink in one go. “So, shall we play?”

 

*

 

“He’s good,” MacTaggert observes, sipping at her drink as they watch Charles rake in another pile of chips. He’s drawn quite a crowd now; the only ones left at the table are a Chinese man steadily bleeding chips, Charles sitting to the side with his ever-growing winnings, and Shaw, who has been coolly keeping level for several rounds. The night is winding to its climax, and everyone in the room instinctively shifts closer, waiting for the final blow to be struck.

“If only he’d been this good with the Treasury’s funds,” Erik grumbles. Almost losing has jumpstarted Charles’ game: his skill level has improved drastically since he’d burned through the $10 million Erik had initially granted him. A small price to pay for capturing a criminal as big as Shaw, but still, Erik’s superiors aren’t going to be happy with him.

“Remember, we get Shaw,” MacTaggert says as the Chinese player folds, leaving just Charles and Shaw at the table.

Much as it irks Erik that Charles has as good as handed Shaw to the CIA, he nods. “You get Shaw, but you share the intel you get from him with MI6.”

MacTaggert arches an eyebrow. “You aren’t even MI6. Hell, you aren’t even British.”

“And yet here I am.”

“Here you are,” MacTaggert agrees, giving him a long look. “One of these days, I’m going to figure out what the hell your scheme is here.”

“My scheme?”

MacTaggert sets her empty glass onto the bar top and taps a finger to his chest. “I looked you up, Mr. Lehnsherr. You haven’t worked for Her Majesty’s Treasury very long, have you? In fact, we don’t have any records of you dating earlier than 2005. I’m not sure what your game is here, but I know you’re not just a treasury agent. I just haven’t figured out exactly what you are yet.”

Erik tips the rest of his drink down his throat and sets his glass down next to hers. “Curiosity killed the cat, Agent MacTaggert.”

She smiles at him, sharp and dangerous. “And satisfaction brought it back, Mr. Lehnsherr. I’d be careful if I were you. You’re gambling with high stakes.”

Erik scoffs. “I can handle MI6.”

“It’s not MI6 you should be worried about,” MacTaggert replies, tilting a glance at Charles.

She might be right, Erik thinks to himself as he watches Charles direct a dazzling smile at one of the spectating ladies who’s leaning over his shoulder. She’s wearing a blood-red dress cut deeply down the back, and Charles lays his hand right where fabric meets skin, his thumb brushing along her spine. Jealousy stretches taut in Erik’s gut, like a wire pulling his innards apart.

No, it’s not the MI6 he should worry about at all. Charles is more dangerous than a hundred agencies put together.

But it’s hard to keep that in mind later when the night has run its course, when Charles is pressed up against him, mouth hot on his own, hands wandering all over Erik’s body, slipping underneath his shirt and running along his ribs and tugging at his belt. “How about that?” he’s saying as Erik pushes him up against the wall of the hotel’s elevator. “You said I couldn’t win and I did.”

“Shut up,” Erik growls. Charles’ mind brushes up tantalizingly against his own, warm and triumphant and intoxicating. The inhibitor bracelets are long gone, taken off and tossed into the backseat of their car as soon as they’d left the casino. All the surveillance equipment and earbuds had gone the same way, and now it’s only them: just an MI6 operative and a treasury agent who knows better than to get involved with him.

He kisses Charles anyway, because he’s stupid and Charles is Charles. They stumble out of the elevator when it reaches their floor and kiss all the way down the hall like love-drunk honeymooners who can’t bear to let go of each other. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous, Erik’s mind warns, but he’s not listening. He can’t hear anything but his own pulse in his ears and the sounds Charles makes when Erik bites down on his earlobe.

The sex is long and messy, Charles’ telepathy linking them together so that their pleasure reverberates between them like a livewire, almost incandescent when they start to shake apart together. Erik comes with Charles’ name on his lips whispered like a prayer to a god he hasn’t believed in for a long time and Charles follows almost instantly, the sound he makes almost enough to have Erik’s cock rising already for a round two.

They lie together in the aftermath, curled around each other in the soft, silken sheets of this ridiculously luxurious hotel, Erik stroking his fingers slowly down the sweaty skin of the curve of Charles’ spine while Charles breathes soft and slow into the juncture of Erik’s neck and shoulder. It’s like a wave has washed over them, knocking them down in a wild rush of relentless energy before pulling back to sea and leaving just the two of them, together, refreshed and oddly serene.

“I’m not actually a treasury agent,” Erik says into the darkness before he can think too deeply and hold back the words that have been threatening to tumble out ever since he first sat across from Charles in the dining compartment on the train. The very first night they met and Erik had been lost from the start.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Erik has never wanted to be willfully stupid more in his entire life.

“I know,” Charles answers, all his usual lazy arrogance still bleeding through into his fucked-out contentment serving to ignite a small spark of annoyance in Erik that Charles of course catches and hastens to add, “Not because I read your mind. I told you that I wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Erik parrots back to him stiffly.

“I’m a trained MI6 agent,” Charles yawns sleepily into Erik’s shoulder, “your body language alone tells me that you’re no paper pusher who spends his time behind a nice, solid oak desk.”

Erik puffs out a breath in a sigh. “Fair enough.”

Charles turns his head sideways to face Erik, head pillowed on Erik’s shoulder now and his blue eyes nearly luminous in the dim light. “Who are you really?”

“You’re still asking, when you can just take?” Erik’s chest is tight, full with an emotion that he’s unable to name.

“Of course I am,” Charles says simply, still loose and relaxed in Erik’s arms even though he should be tense and on guard, those deceptively elegant fingers wrapped around the grip of his gun that’s been buried somewhere in the hapless piles their tuxedos currently make on the floor.

“Sebastian Shaw killed my mother,” Erik says, and at the exact same time he’s hit with the strange realization that this is the first time he’s ever said it out loud, spoken the words that have run around in circles inside his head and nightmares for sixteen long years now. “I’m not here because I want to see him handed over to the Americans to be coddled and kept in a cell. I’m here because I intend to kill him and see him dead.”

There’s a long pause of silence during which Erik refuses to look over at Charles, keeping his gaze cemented to the ceiling. He already knows how Charles feels about taking lives, even given his line of work for queen and country. Charles had preached to him all about it on that very first night on the train, and it’s no wonder Erik had stalked off and left him alone at the table, believing that he didn’t need that kind of softness to get in his way.

Erik wants to kill Shaw, that hasn’t and won’t ever change, but now...he remembers the sharp and biting jealousy he felt while watching Charles flirt with the woman in the pretty dress, and he knows what the hot, tight feeling in his chest right now is even though he refuses to give it a name. Charles is the first thing he’s wanted in a long time that has nothing to do at all with Shaw’s death.

“Oh Erik,” Charles says at last, slow and soft, “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t want your pity,” Erik says through his teeth, “and I _don’t_ want to hear any attempts to change my mind on this. I’m only telling you so you know to stay out of my way.”

Charles sits up, pushing himself all the way up to hover over Erik, peering down at him through the dark in disbelief. “You think I’d step aside and let you do this alone?”

That gives Erik pause, and he makes the mistake of finally looking back at Charles out of confusion. “It’s against every one of your little no-killing policies.”

“Oh, darling, I’m a double-oh agent,” Charles says with a soft laugh, his grin sharp and not at all like the smiles Erik has seen him wear before, “so I’ve got a _license_ to kill.”

 


	43. Harry Potter AU 2: Charles and Erik discover they can both see the thestrals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Prompt: IN A HOGWARTS AU CHARLES AND ERIK SHOULD BE ABLE TO SEE THE THESTRALS. AND THEY REALIZE THAT THE OTHER KNOWS TOO BECAUSE ERIK STUMBLES UPON CHARLES GIVING APPLES TO THEM IN THE FOREST ONE EVENING, AND CHARLES KNOWS HE'S THERE BECAUSE DUH HE'S A TELEPATH, AND THAT'S HOW THEY START TALKING TO EACH OTHER, AND THEY BECOME FRIENDS, AND THEN SWEET BOYFRIENDS, AND EVERYONE GETS FREAKED THE FUCK OUT WHEN THEY SAY HOW THEY MET**

 

“I know you’re there,” the boy says without turning around, nearly making Erik jump out of his skin, “why don’t you come help feed them?”

Hesitating, Erik stays where he is, lingering just on the edge of a small clearing several hundred yards into the Forbidden Forest. Thanks to the trek out here, the already shabby hems of his secondhand robes that are too short for his gangly legs are torn and snarled with thorns, some of the faded gold and crimson lining trailing off in strands.

“How’d you know I was here?” he asks, still not budging from his spot. Despite the thick foliage of the undergrowth, Erik had made sure to move as quietly as possible as he’d followed the small group of strange creatures into the forest, not wanting to startle them. He’d been curious to know more about them, since either he’s crazy and completely imagining things or all the other kids in his year are playing a very elaborate prank on him.

“They’re very real,” the other boy says solemnly, looking back over his shoulder. His piercing blue gaze finds Erik easily despite the gloom. “They’re called Thestrals. And I knew you were there because I’m a Legillimens.”

There’s something about the way he says the word, like he expects Erik to react, but Erik has no idea what it means. Before he can say so, the boy sighs, lips twisting in a small smile.

“It means I can read your mind. Only when you’re thinking very loudly,” he hurries to add, “which you were, a few moments ago.”

Erik’s not sure what it means to be thinking loudly, either, but since the start of the Hogwarts term only two days ago he’s gotten used to letting magical oddities roll off his shoulders. “Oh.”

“I’m Charles Xavier,” the boy says. His robes are brand new and tailored to fit him exactly, neatly pressed and creased. The emerald and silver lining  of his robes doesn’t escape Erik’s attention either—he and the other first-year Gryffindors had been warned to steer clear of Slytherins, but Charles doesn’t seem that bad, just a little weird. “You’re…?”

_Erik Lehnsherr_ , Erik thinks his name, imagining the letters bright and bold, hoping that’s what it means to be thinking loudly.

It wins him a smile. “Nice to meet you, Erik. So you can see them too?” Charles gestures to the ugly, skeletal-like horse with bat wings currently munching on the apple it took from his palm. “I’m sorry.”

“Why can’t anyone else see them?” Erik steps further into the clearing, coming out of hiding. None of his dorm mates seem to be able to; they’d all given Erik funny looks when he’d asked about the strange creatures that had been lined up to pull the carriages. Erik hadn’t had a chance for a closer inspection, either, since he and the rest of the first years had crossed the lake to get to Hogwarts castle instead.

“Because they’re only visible to people who have seen death,” Charles answers simply. “If you can see a Thestral, then you’ve watched someone die right in front of you.”

Erik freezes for a split second, and then hates himself for doing so even as his heart constricts in his chest with memory. “Oh.”

“It was my father,” Charles says, almost kindly. “I was very young. We were in his study one evening and he took out a muggle weapon called a gun and shot himself in the head.”

“I know what a gun is,” Erik says distantly, staring at Charles with newfound horror. “My…it was my mother,” he says lamely, squeezing his hand around his wand in his pocket. “Cancer.”

He doesn’t want to remember her this way, but the memories churn up unbidden anyway: his mother, small and thin in her hospital bed, wasting away before his very eyes even as she implored him to keep going to school. Erik would dodge the nurses as best as he could to stay with her, and he’d been at her bedside when she passed. He’d spent the next two years in the orphanage expecting to remain there until he aged out, but then an owl carrying a letter had arrived and his entire life had changed for a second time.

“Even wizards can’t cure cancer,” Charles says gently, as if he knows it’s been one of the biggest fears on Erik’s mind ever since the owl had scratched at his window: that the cure for his mother had been out there all along, denied to her on account of her being unmagical. A muggle. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry too,” Erik says helplessly, and he isn’t sure if he means it more about his own mother or for Charles’ father as well. Luckily Charles seems to understand regardless.

“Here, come feed one,” he says, pulling another apple out from a pocket. “They look scary but Thestrals are actually quite gentle.”

“I’m not afraid of them,” Erik says, because he _isn’t_ , and walks closer to prove it. Charles hands him the apple but keeps his fingers on Erik’s wrist lightly as Erik offers it out to one of the creatures.

“Steady,” Charles says as the Thestral drags its jaw gently across Erik’s palm to scoop the apple up, and he could be talking about Erik’s hand or he could mean something else entirely—their robes may differ in every way that counts on the outside, but they wear their loss on their sleeves exactly the same. “Just like that. Steady.”

 

*

 

“You’re at the wrong table, Lehnsherr,” someone says snidely as they sit down to Charles’ left, a few feet down along the bench. “You colorblind or something?”

“Fuck you,” Erik says cheerfully without looking up from his copy of the _Prophet_ , and takes a loud, obnoxious slurp from the red and gold mug he pilfered from the Gryffindor table on his way over.

“Charles, do something about your pet,” Emma says from across the table, “his manners need cultivating.”

“You’re just bitter I knocked your boyfriend out in last week’s Quidditch match,” Erik says with an eat-shit grin, finally looking up from the paper. “How many days was he in the infirmary again?”

“It’s too early in the morning to be picking fights, darling,” Charles drawls, flipping a page in his Arithmancy textbook idly. He’s not worried about Emma, however: she and Erik get along like a house on fire when they’re not sniping at each other about House colors. “Pass the tea?”

Obliging, Erik pushes the jug closer. “This table is drab,” he says loudly anyway, ignoring the way Charles squeezes his hand down in his lap, “I came over to brighten things up for you dungeon trolls.”

“Xavier, do something about the mudblood or I will.”

There’s a loud _bang_ , and the owner of the last voice keels over backwards, hitting the ground as a frozen, contorted mess. Charles finishes reading his page before he looks up, sliding his wand back up his sleeve as he surveys the fallen seventh year.

“If you’re lucky it’ll wear off before first period,” he says conversationally, “but until then I want you to think about how many different curses I’ll use on you next time if you call my boyfriend that again.”

“Frost, you just going to sit there and let Xavier curse an upperclassmen?” someone else asks angrily.

Emma runs her knuckles across the shiny Prefect badge pinned neatly to the front of her robes. The only reason Charles hadn’t gotten one too, everyone knows, is because of Erik. “I didn’t see anything,” she says calmly, and treats them all to an icy smile. “Did you?”

“Should’ve let me take him,” Erik says as everyone slowly diverts their attention. He snags a piece of toast off Charles’ plate and takes a bite. “I’ve been wanting to try out this one jinx I read about over the summer that causes boils to grow everywhere.”

“You have enough detentions racked up already,” Charles says, stealing his toast back and finishing it off. _And also Emma would have docked Gryffindor points from you._

He’d included Emma in his projection, and she looks up smiles angelically. “Precisely.”

“Biased,” Erik points out immediately, and Emma bats her eyelashes. “Anyway, are we still getting together later to study, Charles?”

Charles grins. “It’s only the highlight of my day,” he says, and feels a warm wash of delight in answer to Erik’s lazy grin.

“How did you two even meet?” Emma asks, watching them with a detached sort of fascinated horror. “No offense, Erik, but you shouldn’t have even been on the radar.”

“It was back in first year,” Charles says, “we met and bonded over feeding the Thestrals.”

“Revolting,” Emma says, impressed despite herself. Charles knows she can’t see them, but the fifth year Care of Magical Creatures class had just had a lesson on Thestrals last week, so she knows what they are. “That’s unusually morbid for you, though, Charles.”

“And it’s not for me?” Erik demands, but Charles laughs.

“Aside from my pedigree, it’s probably the most Slytherin thing I’ve ever done,” Charles agrees thoughtfully.

Now Erik scoffs. “Please. I saw you straight up manipulating Flitwick into giving you a time extension on your essay just the other day.”

“I prefer the term sweet-talking.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’m talking about, you snake.”

“You, needing an extension?” Emma asks, one eyebrow raised. “Who are you and what have you done with Charles Xavier?”

“I would’ve finished it on time,” Charles says, “but then my study session with Erik devolved into a makeout session instead.”

“It was _great_ ,” Erik informs Emma, as if she’d asked.

“I am disgusted,” Emma announces, rising from the bench and gracefully scooping up her bag. “Don’t either of you speak to me until you can contain yourselves again.”

“See you in Potions,” Erik calls after her, but of course she ignores him. “She’s just jealous we’re a cuter couple than she and Summers are.”

“Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Charles says dryly, even though he privately agrees.

“Anyway,” Erik says, wheeling back around in his seat, “want to go find an empty broom cupboard and make out till first period?”

“Yes,” Charles says, snapping his book shut immediately. He’s been waiting all morning for Erik to offer. “Lead the way.”

 


	44. Harry Potter AU 3: Charles and Erik convince the Sorting Hat to play a prank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT: Charles and Erik convince the Sorting Hat to play a prank based on this[tweet](https://twitter.com/jonnysun/status/782441953745076225)**

 

“You look ridiculous,” Emma says as she sinks down beside him, arranging her robes with an absent flick of her wrist. There’s plenty of room on Charles’ bench on the account of their fellow housemates pointedly refusing to sit near him even if it makes them cramped. “You’re turning yourself into a social pariah.”

“The game started half an hour ago,” Charles says without looking up. His Transfiguration textbook is propped open in his lap, incongruous with the rest of the screaming crowd holding banners and waving snake-shaped windsocks.

“I had to do my hair,” Emma says unconcernedly. “Really, Charles, you don’t even like Quidditch.”

Charles has to wait to respond on the account of Slytherin scoring another goal: around them, their housemates go wild, screaming and cheering as the Chasers do a quick victory loop overhead. “It’s not so bad. Just because my family doesn’t own a team—”

“Two teams, actually,” Emma says with a smirk, “Father bought the Harpies just before last season, remember?”

“Hey Charles!” A blur of crimson heralds Erik’s arrival, and the Slytherin section boos loudly as he comes to a stop hovering overhead. “Oh shut it, you cowardly pit of—”

“Don’t harass the fans, darling,” Charles calls up to him. “You don’t want to get kicked out of the game.”

Erik grins. It’s all teeth. “Anyway, watch  _this!_ ”

He swings his Beater club around and darts out into the playing field on his broom, just in time to intercept one of the Bludgers with a loud THWACK. The ball whistles through the air and slams into the Slytherin Keeper, sending her reeling off to the side of the goals. A Gryffindor Chaser hurls the Quaffle through the middle goalpost, and across the field the red and gold section roars in approval.

The Slytherin section is screaming, this time in anger with obscenities and promises of retaliation, but Charles waves his red and gold pompom as Erik wheels back around on his broom to beam at him, pumping a fist in triumph. Emma makes a noise of disgust when they blow each other kisses, but Charles knows her protests are only token by this point.

“What?” Charles says as the game kicks back into motion as the Quaffle is served again. “That was a good play.”

“You’re supposed to root for your House team.”

“I am,” Charles says reasonably. “I’ll be pleased if Slytherin wins. But I’m rooting for Erik too.”

Emma gives him a pointed once-over.

“Okay, the pompom and the hat may be misleading,” Charles begins.

“But Lehnsherr’s extra set of game day robes certainly round things off nicely,” Emma says dryly. Charles notices she’s strung green and silver ribbons through her hair, and braided everything into a complicated twist, not a strand out of place. “You’re lucky no one is brave enough to attempt hexing you.”

“The robes make it easier for Erik to find me in the crowd,” Charles says staunchly. He waves his pompom as Erik shoots by again in pursuit of another Bludger.

“I imagine the fact that no one wants to sit next to you helps, too. You’re like a tiny drop of blood in a sea of green.”

“Morbid.”

“I’m just telling it like it is, honey.”

Charles shrugs, turning a page. If he’s honest, he loves wearing Erik’s robes, and his Quidditch ones are extra plushy and warm.

Emma sighs, but she reaches over to adjust the stuffed lion on his hat for him, bopping it lightly on the nose when it tries to growl at her. “Before the next game I’ll take you to the Prefect’s bathroom and show you the spell to dye your hair. We can do red and gold.”

Charles looks up at her and grins. “Thank you, Emma.”

 

 *

 

Erik has to stuff a fist in his mouth to drown out a bout of helpless laughter when his foot collides with one of their empty butterbeer bottles, sending it skittering down the dim corridor, rolling to a stop somewhere by the feet of a suit of armor.

“Shhhhh,” Charles says, but the way he snorts halfway through the admonishment kills it, so he settles for prying Erik’s hand out of the way and kissing him again, syrupy slow.

Erik shifts, feeling dreamily heavy and warm as he parts his lips. He and Charles are tucked away into a wide windowsill somewhere on the second floor, trading kisses and taking swigs out of the butterbeer bottles they’d brought along. They’d spent the requisite amount of time up in the Gryffindor Common Room first where the party celebrating Gryffindor’s win over Slytherin had still been in full swing when Charles had grabbed Erik’s hand and pulled him out of the portrait hole an hour ago.

Charles is a comfortable, familiar weight where he’s perched on top of Erik, straddling Erik’s legs and their hips slotting together as he leans forward for another kiss. Erik drags his hands up Charles’ back, to his shoulder blades where the golden letters spelling LEHNSHERR sprawl out proudly, and then up to tangle in Charles’ fluffy hair. In the moonlight Erik can see Charles’ eyes crack open in pleasure as he drags his fingers across Charles’ scalp, and the tiny flicker of awareness between them sparks as Charles’ Legilimency surges.

“We should get out of here before Filch comes,” Charles whispers against Erik’s lips. He ducks down to plant a small trail of kisses along Erik’s jaw, cradling Erik’s face between his hands. One of his thumbs smooths continuously over the small scar above Erik’s lip from third year when he’d taken a Bludger to the face.

“Dungeons are closer,” Erik says, tilting his head back. His hands drop down to Charles’ sides, feeling out the solidness of his body beneath the slightly-too-large robes.

“No one is going to want one of the Gryffindor Beaters in the Slytherin Common Room right now,” Charles answers with a small laugh, nuzzling against Erik’s throat.

“Sore losers,” Erik scoffs, and shakes his head when Charles slides a memory of the last time Gryffindor lost a match into his head. “Hey, I’m allowed to mope if I want to, I’m on the actual team.”

“That’s not how it works,” Charles says, but laughs again when Erik hitches him up closer with his best eat-shit grin.

They’re in the middle of another makeout session that’s starting to make Erik feel more and more uncomfortable in his pants when Charles draws back abruptly, going ramrod straight in Erik’s lap. Before Erik can ask him what’s wrong, the answer presents itself.

“ _Meow_ ,” Mrs. Norris says, staring up at them with her lamp-like eyes. She’s sitting in the middle of the corridor directly in front of their window, her tail flicking slowly back and forth.

Erik exchanges a glance with Charles. “Shit.”

“Hurry,” Charles says, scrambling off him, “Filch won’t be far.”

It takes Erik an extra second to find his footing and get his legs working properly, one of his feet sound asleep. Charles takes his hand and together they stagger off down the hallway, trying not to make too much noise as the few paintings still awake watch disapprovingly.

“Move faster,” Charles hisses when Erik almost knocks into a suit of armor when he pauses to shake his foot out.

“I’m trying,” Erik hisses back, and down the hall Mrs. Norris meows again.

“Who’s there?” croaks Filch’s voice through the dark, but luckily it sounds like it’s coming from down at the other end of the corridor. “Naughty students out of bed, I take it.”

Charles looks back at Erik sharply. Gritting his teeth, Erik tightens his grip on Charles’ hand and pushes past the uncomfortable tingling in his foot as he races ahead, pulling Charles along behind him. Filch’s uneven footsteps are drawing closer, but Erik doesn’t look back, keeping his eyes on the dark alcove just a few yards ahead.

“Milky Way Midnights,” he whispers to the gargoyle statue as they approach, and it comes to life and springs aside to reveal a doorway. Erik tugs Charles inside and shuts the door, and outside he hears the statue move back into place.

For a few seconds they stand frozen together, waiting for sounds of discovery, but it soon becomes clear Filch hadn’t noticed the statue moving and no one up the narrow, spiraling staircase before them has heard them enter, so they relax.

“What’s a Milky Way Midnight?” Charles whispers curiously.

“Muggle candy,” Erik explains, his voice at normal speaking level. “It’s dark chocolate. They’re okay, I guess. Come on.”

“Erik, no!” Charles whispers frantically when Erik takes his hand again and starts up the stairs. “What if the Headmaster is here?”

“Then we say hi?” Erik suggests, shrugging, and Charles mutters something distinctly unkind about Erik’s lack of self-preservation but follows him up the stairs.

The Headmaster’s office, as it turns out, is dark and empty, all the portraits of Hogwarts’ former Headmasters and Headmistresses snoring away. Charles ignores the smug look Erik tilts him in favor of approaching the wall of shelves housing various magical artifacts to examine them closely, so Erik makes a beeline to the Sorting Hat.

“What are you doing?” Charles asks when Erik picks it up and flips it over. “You’re not wondering about your sorting, are you? You’re the proudest Gryffindor in the whole school.”

“Exactly, so every now and then I try to see if I can pull Gryffindor’s sword out of the hat.”

Charles is startled into a laugh, loud in the quiet of the office, so Erik grins and shoves his hand down into the hat, feeling around in hopes of finding a cold, jeweled hilt.

The hat wakes with a loud squawk, wriggling in Erik’s grip. “Not  _you_  again,” it snaps irritably, “put me down this instant you Spattergroit-infested **—** ”

“I don’t have  _Spattergroit_ ,” Erik protests, offended, and drops the hat back down on its stand. “Why won’t you let me see the sword?”

“Why indeed,” the hat says, somehow giving off the impression of sneering. It twitches its brim once or twice, straightening itself. “I should’ve sorted you into Hufflepuff for how persistent you are.”

“You think I could jinx it?” Erik asks as Charles moves over to stand beside him. “I’ve always wanted to make it shout something other than the House names during the Sorting.” Just the idea makes him laugh. “Can you imagine the looks on everyone’s faces **—** ”

“You wouldn’t be able to make the magic stick,” the hat says smugly.

“But you’re capable of letting the magic stick?” Charles asks shrewdly. He takes Erik’s hand absently, sliding their fingers together. “If you wanted to, you could let Erik’s spell work?”

“I remember you,” the hat tells him, “it almost took me five minutes to sort you.”

“We had quite a scintillating conversation on the merits of each House,” Charles agrees, “but in the end we decided Slytherin was the best fit.”

“Spoken like a true Xavier,” the hat says, dry as dust.

“But Erik’s spell?”

The hat sighs. “Yes,” it says begrudgingly, “if I chose to.” It wags its drooping point at them both. “But I’m not.”

“Oh come on,” Erik cajoles.

“What if,” Charles says, smiling one of his slow, lazy smiles that has more edges than the House crystals and always leaves Erik torn between wanting to punch him or push him back the nearest wall and kiss him senseless, “we made a deal with you?”

The hat considers this. “I’m listening.”

 

*

 

“Do try to pay attention, Charles,” Emma drawls, tapping a finger on Charles’ cheek. “I know you just spent the last two weeks of summer at Lehnsherr’s house so there’s really no need to be mooning over him now like you’ve been separated for months.”

“I am not  _mooning_  over him,” Charles says absently without tearing his eyes away from where Erik sits all the way across the Great Hall at the Gryffindor table. Erik’s been trying to catch his eye ever since they all sat down, and now he’s flashing a double thumbs up as the first years are led into the room in a long, nervous line.

“How was it, by the way? I’ve never been to a muggle…dwelling.”

“His  _house_  was  _lovely_ ,” Charles says with feeling, turning away from Erik at last, bemused. He could always take a peek into Erik’s mind to see what he’s going on about, but it’ll keep. Right now the first years are far more interesting, and Erik will join them at the Slytherin table anyway once the food is served. “His mother even invited me back for the holiday break. Erik wants to show me what they do instead of Christmas. I think I’ll go.”

“Surprise,” Emma says wryly, as the Sorting Hat is placed on the stool and opens its mouth to begin singing its song. They listen attentively and clap politely once it’s finished, and Emma says, “I do hope this year’s batch of Slytherins are decent.”

“Mm,” Charles agrees, and then the first first year is called up to begin the Sorting.

The Great Hall falls silent in anticipation, watching as the first year climbs up to sit on the rickety stool. As the Sorting Hat is lowered carefully onto the boy’s head, Charles abruptly remembers a certain, specific night way back in last year’s Fall term and why exactly Erik is so excited right now.

“Oh no,” he says as the Sorting Hat draws back its seam and opens its mouth.

“GRRREAT LAKE! THROW HIM IN THE GREAT LAKE!”

There’s a split second of utterly shocked silence from students and professors alike before the hall erupts with noise, from confusion to laughter to professors valiantly calling for order.

“GGGREAT LAKE!” the hat crows above the clamor. “DROWN HIM!”

“What did you do?” Emma asks in fascinated horror as a gaggle of professors convene on the hat. On the stool, the poor frightened first year looks close to tears, as do a great many more of them still waiting in the queue.

“It wasn’t  _me_ ,” Charles protests, looking across the hall again. Erik is roaring with laughter, banging a fist on the table and Charles has to fight not to show the unbearable fondness for Erik that wells up inside him at the sight. “It was Erik’s idea.”

“Of course it was, but you helped.”

“I had to convince the hat to agree,” Charles admits.

Emma clucks her tongue impatiently. “And how’d you manage that?”

“I promised Erik would stop sneaking into the Headmaster’s office all the time to try and pull Gryffindor’s sword out of it.”

“You’re both going to be expelled,” Emma marvels, but she sounds amused.

“No,” Charles says, catching Erik’s eye and sharing a grin with him, “I think we’ll be just fine.”

 

* 

 

Charles is right **—** they aren’t expelled, but when all’s said and done they’re both served six weeks of detention each, and Erik is benched for the first half of the Quidditch season. Letters are sent home to both of their families but Charles knows his mother won’t care; Erik confesses he’s relieved his mother doesn’t know about Howlers.

Erik gripes and moans and carries on more about the practices and games he can’t take part in than their actual detention sessions, but Charles doesn’t mind, even if the sessions consist of sitting in an empty classroom for an hour every weekday evening, writing lines.

It would be mind-numbing and boring, but Charles has his Legilimency **—** and even better, under the table out of sight from Filch’s beady eyes, they hold hands the entire time.

 


	45. Harry Potter AU 4: Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PROMPT: Charles as Newt and Erik as Jacob from Fantastic Beasts And Where To Find Them**

 

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Raven says, sweeping one last critical, suspicious look at each of them perched on their matching twin beds, and then she pulls the door shut with a soft snap.

Erik leans back against the pillows, head still spinning slightly. He thinks he should be exhausted, after the day he’s had, but instead his nerves still buzz with adrenaline, thoughts whirling with wonder. Wizards. Witches. Magic. All of it real. All of it…

Fantastic.

He turns his head when Charles suddenly leaps up out of his bed, scurrying over to the desk where his battered briefcase sits. As Erik watches he picks it up, almost reverent with fond care, and places it carefully on its side in the middle of the floor. Crouching down, Charles takes a small breath before flipping open the dingy buckles, and Erik instinctively braces himself as Charles opens the case. This time nothing bursts out of it in a wild bid to escape, to Erik’s secret relief.

Then Charles stands up, and steps into the briefcase. Erik had thought he’d already pretty much seen it all by this point and had no room left for further shock, but he can only blink in bemusement as Charles’ form gets shorter and shorter, as if he’s walking down a flight of stairs down into the case, until he’s disappeared completely.

Erik sits on his bed, completely alone in the room, staring at the open briefcase. Then Charles’ hand pops back up into view, beckoning for Erik to follow, and Erik hesitates for only a moment—but he’s trusted Charles this far, hasn’t he?—before he throws his blanket off and walks over to step into the briefcase and follow him.

It’s pitch dark at first as he descends down an actual flight of stairs, and Erik’s sense of the space around him seems to warp and twist for a moment, something funny happening in his stomach, but then things come back into focus as he steps off the last step. Charles bustles past him with a wheelbarrow but Erik remains rooted to the spot where he is, looking about in awe.

The inside of Charles’ briefcase is a menagerie. The immediate area near the stairs leading up and out seems to be a kind of workshop, filled with all kinds of barrels and chests of what must presumably be food, an assortment of tools, and a desk crowded with precariously-stacked books and loose bits of parchment paper, covered from top to bottom in the same messy scrawl. But all around them are dozens of different habitats, each neatly contained even though Erik can see no fences, yet all seeming to be as large as Central Park.

There’s what looks like the African savannah, where Erik can see a whole herd of the rhinoceros-type creature that’d nearly flattened him this afternoon—Erumpent, Charles had called it cheerfully while Erik glared up at him—grazing peacefully. Next to the savannah the grasslands bleed into an icy tundra, and as Erik watches Charles steps out into the snow and lets out a wild cry, and a few moments later a shadow slinks up over an outcropping of rock: a leopard, or at least Erik thinks it is until he sees it puff out its neck with dozens of rigid spikes like a blowfish.

“A Nundu,” Charles explains over his shoulder, holding out a chunk of meat. The creature leaps down off the rock and prowls forward, opening its fanged mouth and catching the morsel when Charles tosses it. “Her breath can cause quite a nasty disease, you know.”

“Nasty disease,” Erik repeats, eyeing the Nundu as she nuzzles Charles’ hand with a deep purr, and then Charles is moving on to the next habitat.

“I’m quite excited about these, and a little proud, if I might brag for a second,” Charles says, grinning at Erik as he motions for Erik to join him. “Graphorns are almost completely extinct in the wild, and I know for a fact I have the only breeding pair left in the entire world.”

Erik peers into the darkness, but he can’t see anything. Charles puts two fingers in his mouth and makes a low whistle, and heavy footsteps begin to approach, something looming up out of the dark. The Graphorns are enormous, taller than horses with great, scaley heads and powerful-looking lizard tails. At first Erik thinks there’s only two, but then a baby Graphorn, only about the size of a retriever, totters up out of the dark on four shaky legs, chirping happily when one of its parents leans down to lick its head.

“Only one offspring so far,” Charles says, tipping his wheelbarrow over to scatter what looks like an assortment of vegetables onto the ground for the Graphorns to pick through, “but it’s an amazing success to have gotten them to breed in the first place. Their hides are tougher than even a dragon’s, you see, and can repel most spells, so they were overhunted.”

Dragons, Erik thinks, but then to his surprise Charles takes his hand and tugs him gently along, leaving the Graphons to feed. Erik’s not sure if it’s magic or something else entirely that makes warmth radiate up his entire arm from where their hands are joined, but he doesn’t have long to question it before they come to a stop in front of a giant nest situated in a protective ring of rocks.

“Here’s your friend’s siblings,” Charles announces happily, digging into the seemingly bottomless pockets of his teal peacoat.

“My friends?” Erik wonders, and then Charles produces the same silver egg that had brought them together in the first place back in the bank, and lowers it gently down into the nest.

With a chorus of tiny hisses, several tiny serpents slither out of the twigs, their iridescent, deep blue-purple-green scales reminding Erik of a peacock’s coloring. They coil up like tiny springs, opening their mouths that are hooked like beaks and cheeping up at Charles and Erik, and then Erik sees the tiny pair of wings flapping on each of their backs.

Almost as if on cue, the silver egg begins to crack, the shell chipping away piece by piece until another tiny winged serpent spills out. Its siblings crowd around it curiously at once, but Charles scoops it up, gently depositing the newborn in Erik’s hands.

“An Occamy,” Charles says with a smile as the little serpent looks up at Erik and coos softly. “They can grow to be enormous, but they’re also choranaptyxic.”

“Chorano-what?” Erik asks, shifting his hands slightly as the baby Occamy starts to slither around his fingers. With his thumb he gently strokes its tiny head and the Occamy squeaks, turning to gnaw on him.

“Choranaptyxic,” Charles corrects, amused. “It means they can grow or shrink to fit any available space. These little ones would grow to be as big as houses if I let them, or they could also shrink down to fit nice and cosy in a teapot.”

“I see,” Erik says, trying to imagine it. Charles gently takes him by the wrists and helps him lower the Occamy back down into the nest with its siblings, gently shooing them away when more of them try to slither up Erik’s arms.

They withdraw their arms from the nest slowly, careful not to let any of the Occamy cling. Feeling bold, Erik catches Charles’ hands with his own as they straighten, facing each other. Charles stares down at their hands for a moment, blinking, before he slowly lifts his head to look up at Erik curiously.

“Thank you for showing me this,” Erik says, because as enthusiastic as Charles has been while showing off each of his creatures so far, Erik’s also gotten the sense that he’s been entrusted with something very precious. “I know I’m just a—a No-Maj—”

“Say Muggle,” Charles interrupts with a grin, “it’s a far superior term.”

“A Muggle, then,” Erik says, amused, since it means little difference to him. “But I think I’m finally certain I’m not dreaming about all this.”

“What gave it away?” Charles asks with a smile, squeezing Erik’s hands gently.

“I’m not certain I have the imagination to make all of this up,” Erik says honestly, and Charles’ laugh bubbles up out of him like champagne.

“I’m certain you do, my friend,” he says softly, his gaze gone soft and fond. “I like to think everyone has a little bit of magic in them, even Muggles.”

“Imagination counts as magic?” Erik asks teasingly, and Charles smiles brightly.

“Imagination is the best kind of magic,” he says, and then they’re kissing, soft and tentative at first before Charles sighs and wraps his arms around Erik’s neck, pulling Erik down to where he can reach better. Erik can only hold on tightly as well, memorizing the feeling of Charles’ solid body against his and the warm, silky glide of his lips and tongue as their kiss deepens.

It surprises him how Charles tastes like peppermint, sharp and fresh. Erik’s not sure what he would have expected a wizard to taste like, but it’s such a regular,  _ordinary_  flavor—nothing other-worldly or profound about it. But Charles makes it seem magical anyway, just by being who he is: this strange, wonderful, fantastic man who has turned Erik’s entire world upside down several times over.

When they part, slow and gentle, Charles smooths back the single curl of hair that’s flopped down onto Erik’s forehead, eyes crinkling with another smile. Then he takes Erik’s hand again, natural as breathing. “Come on,” he says, “come help me feed the Mooncalves.”

 

* 

 

They stand close together just under the shelter of the awning covering the stairway leading back down into the subway, watching the Ministry officials rebuild the ruined buildings under the direction of their wands, steel and bricks and mortar flowing back into place like nothing ever changed in the first place. The Thunderbird’s rain comes down in sheets, washing away the rest of the debris as well as the memories of the Muggles who have witnessed the surreal.

Erik has to go.

“The Minister says I’m not allowed to remember,” Erik tells Charles, who is still gripping his hand tightly down low where no one can see. All he has to do is take one step, out into the rain.

One step, and he’ll forget all about Charles, and never see him again.

“I’ve never been much of one for rules,” Charles says weakly, trying to joke but there’s nothing but deep conflict in his eyes. “I was expelled from Hogwarts, after all.”

“Your wizard school?” Erik asks, and Charles manages a smile.

“Yes. My wizard school.”

“I would have liked to hear more about it,” Erik starts, gently, but Charles shakes his head, letting go of Erik’s hand to grip him by both shoulders.

“Come with me,” he says, quiet but urgent, some kind of bright fire burning in his eyes. “Please, Erik. I know you have your life here, but…” He shakes his head again. “Come with me.”

Erik thinks of his backbreaking construction job, under his terrible boss, and his tiny, lonely apartment with thin walls and leaky plumbing. He came to America for a fresh start, originally, but before Charles…

“Wouldn’t they stop us?” he asks anyway, because the last thing he wants is for Charles to be detained for breaking wizard law. Charles is a wild creature himself, and deserves to be free—all his creatures are depending on him.

Charles grins, devilishly and devastatingly handsome. “I just saved the whole city. You heard the Minister—they owe me. They’ll at least look the other way long enough for us to run. Raven will make sure of it.” He carefully lets go of Erik, stepping back out of his space, his smile turned wistful. “It’s entirely your decision, Erik. I won’t blame you if you decide to stay.”

Erik doesn’t answer at first; not out of hesitation, but because at first he can’t fathom how Charles could ever think it would be a choice for him at all. This time he’s the one who takes Charles’ hand, folding their fingers together. “I’ve followed you this far, haven’t I,” he says, a little gruffly, “let’s see where else our imaginations take us.”

Charles lets out a happy, wet laugh, leaning up to kiss him, and then they’re gone with a soft pop, leaving the stairwell empty as the rain slows to a trickle and the clouds part to let the sunshine through, bright and full of endless possibility. 

 


End file.
